


Teamwork

by MgnfcntSvn



Category: Deadpool (Movieverse), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1, Supernatural, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Librarians (TV 2014), The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Because we can't have too many of those, Fantasy, Fluff, Gen, Yet another M7 universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2019-11-29 06:11:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 26,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18219254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MgnfcntSvn/pseuds/MgnfcntSvn
Summary: Humanity has faced many threats before, most of which they were not even aware. There are select groups of people who take care of such things, and when Earth faces an unprecedented danger, they will join forces and face it head-on, together. More or less.





	1. Hidden Figures

**Author's Note:**

> -Timelines for every fandom have been tossed in the bin.  
> -Infinity War never happened  
> -The Magnificent Seven are not entirely human (but they all look like they are, so, still pretty)  
> -Harry, Ron and Draco are adults  
> -Sherlock is a brat  
> -So is Deadpool  
> -Originally no female characters, but I decided it needed one so that all those lovely men could be appreciated.  
> -There are lots of characters, so no one has a starring role.
> 
> This is an alternate reality (in some cases, an alternate reality of an alternate reality). If you try to take things too seriously, you might end up wanting to smack me one.
> 
> This was written before Endgame. There are a couple of minor similarities, but they are purely coincidence. Besides, if Infinity War never happened, Endgame didn't either, right?
> 
> Special note: I am aware of Ilvermorny, but [Horsefeathers Academy](http://www.blackraptor.net/m7fic-62/Horsefeathers/index.htm) is Magnificent Seven fanon, so I've used that as the U.S. school of Wizardry and Witchcraft.
> 
> Sorta Warning: No graphic violence or sexual situations, however, there are bad words, references to drug use, and characters making arrogant, rude, or insensitive comments (like they do in canon) and occasional poor choices (like they also do in canon).

Chris Larabee and his team medic Nathan Jackson sat in the head office of the Organization for Preternatural Threat Intervention and Containment – OPTIC, for short. Larabee was used to hearing odd things come out of Director Orin Travis’ mouth, but this time was different. This time, the threat was one with which OPTIC had no experience. Sure, their units had contained that series of atomic monsters back in the 50s (Travis had the head of one of those 9-foot ants mounted on his office wall), thwarted two zombie uprisings, and contained a couple of incidences at ill-conceived theme parks gone haywire, as well as the usual vampires, werewolves, shapeshifters, sasquatches and other things that didn’t want to behave themselves. And it was true that there were other populated dimensions, worlds and alternate realities, such as Asgard. But invasion by hostile extraterrestrial life forms intent on taking over Earth was fiction. There had been no actual War of the Worlds, no ‘It’ or anything else had come from outer space, and Signourney Weaver had kicked the ass of an entirely imaginary creature.

But here was Travis, telling him that the Truth actually was Out There.

“Wraiths?” Larabee frowned at the term. His team had dealt with those, too, but apparently, this was a different kind of wraith.

“They are an extremely hostile and aggressive life form,” Travis explained. “As in, they want to eat us.”

Larabee laughed.

“I’m serious – they feed on humanoids in the Pegasus galaxy . . .”

“What?” Larabee frowned. “How do we even know there are humanoids in the Pegasus Galaxy?”

Travis began a somewhat lengthy explanation of the Stargate that had been discovered in 1928. Larabee knew about the Stargate, of course, and Jack O’Neill’s excursion to Abydos that had ended with a member of his team stranded there when the Abydos gate was buried. Apparently, however, that wasn’t the end of the story. The gate had been reactivated, according to Travis, and a few select humans had been gate-hopping all over the universe for a couple of decades.

And now, they had, unfortunately, attracted the attention of subject Wraiths.

“We can’t fight them on their terms. Their technology is way too advanced for us to even consider it. But we have one weapon they don’t.”

Larabee nodded knowingly, “Magic.”

“Hopefully, they won’t even understand it. . . . With luck, they won’t even know what hit them until it’s too late.”

“I only have one man on my team who can do magic, though,” Larabee noted.

“Your team will form the core of a larger unit, operating with five wizards . . .,” the Director began.

“I don’t want any of those goofy kids from Brakebills,” Larabee warned.

Nathan’s eyes narrowed at the comment. His cousin was the Dean of Brakebills.

“No offense,” Larabee backpedaled. “It’s just . . . a lot of those kids have . . . baggage.” Many Brakebills students had been diagnosed with mental health issues before finding out what they really were. Some of them actually _had_ mental health issues because of how they had been misdiagnosed and inappropriately medicated.

“They aren’t wizards, they are magicians,” Travis explained. “There’s a difference. But they’ve elected to form their own cadre, as have the Night Watch, X-Men, most of Tony Stark’s gang, and the 7th years at the Wizarding schools,” Travis assured him. “You’ll have two American wizards and three Brits, counting the one already on your team.”

“Ezra Standish.”

Travis nodded. “The other American wizard is an Avenger . . . “

“Stephen Strange.” Chris had done his research. “But he’s actually a sorcerer . . . and not really an Avenger . . .“

“Trained as a sorcerer, yes, but he was born a wizard. . . He's also brilliant, arrogant, and has a great beard, so, he might as well be an Avenger. We don’t know who the Brits are yet. MI6 is coordinating that. . . You’re also getting two other Avengers and a Librarian.”

“A librarian?” Chris scoffed.

Travis smiled wryly. “That’s Librarian with a capital L.”

Chris understood, then. The Librarians had access to _The Library_ \- which was actually an archive for pretty much everything pertaining to legend, myth, magic and the supernatural. They weren't people you messed with.

“We figured Jake Stone would be the best fit for your team. IQ off the charts, but he’s still basically a cowboy,” Travis smirked.

Chris snorted at that comment. “Who else?”

“I figured I’d let you pick the other two.”

Chris didn’t hesitate. “I want Sam and Dean Winchester.” The brothers had – literally – been to Hell and back and had survived far worse than an encounter with a bunch of aliens. They also knew how to kill or vanquish a variety of life forms that were not of this world – well, not of this plane of existence, anyway. The Wraith might be susceptible to some of their methods.

Travis glanced at his notes and sighed, “If you take them, you’re going to have to take Castiel, too. Can you handle a second angel?”

“Castiel, too.” Larabee brooked no argument.

So . . . that’s seventeen instead of sixteen. Shouldn’t be a problem, though.”

Larabee’s team consisted of seven men, or a reasonable facsimile thereof.

There was his wizard, Ezra, who was born into a wizarding family and was a proper graduate of Horsefeathers Academy, the US school of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It was not known who his father was, but most suspected it was someone fairly high up in the Federal Bureau of Magic. His mom wouldn't say.

Nathan Jackson was a doctor, although not one in the ordinary sense. He specialized in humans suffering from paranormal conditions, and paranormal beings suffering from . . . whatever it was they suffered from; vampires burned by sunlight, werewolves poisoned by silver, and the occasional fallen angel – which was what another of his team mates, Josiah Sanchez, was.

Josiah had fallen by choice, fed up with the Angel Wars and deciding what was the point of not being human if angels were going to behave like humans, anyway?

Vin Tanner was an Elf, although he’d been orphaned at a young age and didn’t know where or who is actual family was. Vin was also a tech-mage, a being who was able to communicate directly with the manitou (or spirit, as some believed) that existed in inanimate objects - in Vin’s case, weapons. He could hit a target with anything from a bar room dart to a nuclear warhead (although, admittedly, he’d never attempted the latter).

Buck Wilmington only looked human – he was in fact a young dragon who’d had a spell placed on him as a toddler. Their wizard, Ezra, had never encountered such a powerful and long-lasting spell, and had no idea who had cast it or how to reverse it. Buck’s early recollection of it falling on him involved a human acquaintance of his mother, both of whom had subsequently disappeared. Buck had never reverted back to his dragon form, although most human women had an inborn fondness for dragons that drew them to Buck. He called it his ‘animal magnetism.’

The youngest member of his team was JD Dunne, who had grown up in the same OPTIC foster home as Vin. Found abandoned on a trans-Atlantic flight from Dublin to Boston, it had become apparent that he was no ordinary child when he not only taught himself to read at 19 months, but demonstrated that he could do it from a distance of several hundred feet. His IQ was supposedly somewhere around Stephen Hawking level (although he often demonstrated evidence to the contrary) and, he had microscopic and macroscopic vision. He could see things that normal people needed a microscope or telescope to see. He would have been with the X-Men if OPTIC hadn’t grabbed him first.

His team referred to themselves as The Magnificent Seven. There were those who would disagree, but . . . screw them, Larabee thought. They were among the best at their job. He was pretty sure that they would be able to assimilate their new team mates, which was good, since they apparently weren’t going to be given a choice.

“When and where?” Larabee asked Travis.

“There’s a secret base . . . “

“Of course there is,” Nathan mumbled, causing Travis to glare.

“Problem, Mr. Jackson?”

“Uh . . . no sir, please, go on . . .”

“It’s located beneath a mountain on the northern tip of Adak Island.”

“Which is where?” Larabee blinked, confused.

“The Alaskan Aleutians. Take your thermal underwear.”

>>>>>

If his brother didn’t want him “sleuthing” around his office, then he should; a) have had the courtesy (and cautionary foresight) to actually _be_ there; b) not leave visitors unattended so long that they became bored (desperately so); and c) not leave folders lying on his desk (seriously, who even used paper anymore for anything?)

Sherlock opened the folder, because he was desperately bored and didn’t care what Mycroft thought, anyway.

“Should you be doing that?” the other person in the room spoke.

“No, John, probably not.”

John Watson grunted softly to acknowledge that fact, but then said, “So, what’s in it?”

“Interesting . . . It’s not even encrypted.” Of course, that didn’t mean it actually made sense. There were three names. Sherlock recognized one of them because anyone who had anything remotely to do with MI6 knew who Harry Potter was. The other two names, not so much, but he assumed they, too, were wizards. There were also SAT NAV coordinates and a time, which was 20 minutes from then. “We have to go,” he told John.

“But Mycroft . . .”

“Yes, exactly!” and with that, Sherlock was on his way out the door. John, as usual, had no choice but to follow.

The coordinates led to a concealed alley in a not-so-glamorous part of London. “Are you sure this is the place?” John asked.

“Of course I’m sure . . . though it does seem rather an odd place for a clandestine meeting. Back alleys are not Mycroft’s style.”

Footsteps were approaching and Sherlock pulled John behind a skip until they could see who it was. Three men – one a ginger, another whose hair was so blond it was almost white, and, the infamous Harry Potter himself. They appeared to be searching for something.

Sherlock instinctively began to examine his surroundings also, wondering what they were looking for. There wasn’t anything around them but assorted trash, save for a small, battered Winnie the Pooh that was practically at Sherlock’s feet. Curious, he picked it up.

As soon as he did, beams of light burst from it, and the alley appeared to be swirling around them. John jumped back, crashing into the side of the skip, which immediately attracted the attention of the other three men.

Sherlock was mesmerized by the glowing Pooh, because what the fuck even did that? He was vaguely aware of an excited voice in the background that shouted, _“He’s got the port key!”_

In short order, three hands tried to grab Radioactive Pooh, but Sherlock wasn’t letting go, because, really, _what the fuck?_

John Watson looked on in confusion and no small amount of alarm. Sherlock was holding a plushie that was shooting out beams of light. The alley was spinning, and three guys had appeared and were fighting Sherlock for the toy. Sherlock looked hypnotized, which was probably not a good thing. He also looked like he was . . . _disappearing!_

In a panic, John reached out to yank Sherlock’s hand from the bear, and suddenly it was as if the entire universe had warped out of existence.

_Bloody hell . . ._


	2. The Company Men

Fourteen hours later, a black helicopter (yes, one of _those_ black helicopters) deposited Larabee and his team, as well as the Winchesters and Castiel whom they had picked up on the way, in the middle of desolate, windswept tundra at the base of a barren mountain. There was nothing to indicate the area was currently inhabited, although there was a small town on the other side of the island. In the distance, they could see the ruins of what had once been a US Naval installation, and almost at their feet was a row of derelict Quonset huts that had quite possibly been there since WWII.

Larabee checked his GPS. “The entrance is here.” He nodded at the row of huts.

“This one,” JD said, pointing at the third hut from the left.

Larabee didn’t question how the kid knew that. There was probably some kind of spore on the tundra grass that had been recently disturbed, or more recent fingerprints on the door of that particular hut. Whatever. He didn’t want to know.

He led the way inside, and sure enough, behind the rear of the hut, which was fake (a good fake, but JD saw right through it, literally) was a titanium door with a digital lock. Travis had given him the code. He didn’t have to write it down. Being what he was, he never forgot things like that.

In moments, they were inside. It was cold and dark, but as soon as they entered, the lights came on. Hopefully, the heat did, too.

A long tunnel led to a cavernous space that turned out to be an airplane hangar – a fairly state-of-the-art one, at that. They knew this because minutes after their arrival, a side of the structure slid open and a small jet with a large Stark Industries logo and a smaller Avengers decal on the nose taxied their way.

“Great. Who invited those guys?” Dean Winchester asked.

“We might be glad to have them,” Nathan pointed out. “At least, some of them.”

“Clint . . . Hawkeye . . . is a good guy. I know him,” Vin said. “He’d be good to have.”

"Nope, no Hawkeye," Larabee remarked.

Ezra shuddered. He had once used the pseudonym Eton Stark and it had created all kinds of problems when he’d somehow acquired the nickname “Tony.” He really didn’t care to meet Iron Man again.

There was a portable ramp nearby and once the plane had stopped, Vin and JD pushed it up to the cabin door. Three passengers walked down the ramp. One wore basically normal clothes – tailored white shirt, black slacks and even with the wonky coat he was wearing, he would have still looked pretty normal except for the red cape. The other two were pretty much head to toe in red, although neither, Ezra was relieved to see, was Tony Stark.

They each introduced themselves.

“Peter Parker.”

 _Spiderman_ , Chris noted – although he was hardly a man - younger than JD, who was not quite 19, and even smaller.

“Doctor Strange,” announced the guy in the red cape.

“Where do these guys come up with these names?” Buck whispered to Vin.

“He’s really a doctor, and Strange is really his name,” Vin explained.

“Pool, Dead,” the last guy introduced himself cheerfully.

 _Wade Wilson_ , Chris knew, and then raised an eyebrow in surprise. “You’re not an Avenger.”

“Coulda been, shoulda been. . . . . but wouldn’ta been. Just not my thing.”

“Why are you here?”

“Because I kick ass. It’s what I do. . . and they were kinda out of Avengers and X-Men.”

The ‘pilot’ emerged from the aircraft at that point, although he wasn’t dressed for the part. He wore jeans and a plaid Western shirt over a black tee-shirt, and cowboy boots.

“Jake Stone,” he extended his hand to Chris. _The Librarian_.

“You’re a pilot?” Vin asked. He’d heard that Stone was some kind of art expert.

“Not really – this plane sorta just flies itself, but someone has to be in the cockpit. FAA rules.”

Deadpool was carrying what looked like a military rucksack, only the denim fabric it was made from was covered with My Little Pony unicorns. It clearly had some weight to it and it landed with an echoing thud when he dropped it on the floor.

Vin was immediately drawn to it. He could sense the guns inside. “Wow . . . lots of firepower.”

Everyone else looked confused, so Deadpool pulled some Velcro fastenings on the bag and unrolled it. Inside was a neatly arranged arsenal of, well, everything.

“Where did you get that?” Vin asked, referring to the rucksack, which had neat compartments for each weapon – not that he really wanted one with My Little Pony on it.

“Made it,” Deadpool answered. “Well, sewed it, actually. The fabric was on sale.”

“Obviously,” Ezra huffed.

“You sew?” JD asked, and it sounded rude, so Buck nudged him sharply.

Nonplussed, Deadpool rolled his weapons back up. “Yes, I do. How else would I manage to look this awesome?” He spread out his arms and ‘modeled’ his red suit.

As he was doing so, there was a brilliant flash of light nearby and five men suddenly dropped out of thin air. Three of them landed on their feet. A fourth did a face-plant on the tarmac and the fifth landed on top of him. It looked painful, to say the least.

Nathan approached the two men on the floor. Luckily, the guy on the bottom appeared to be a bit more sturdily built than the skinny one who had landed on him. Both of them sat up, looking stunned.

The guy who had face-planted looked around with unfocused eyes. “Where . . . How . . . What . . .” He didn’t seem able to form a question.

The other one just announced, “I’m going to vomit,” then did.

One of the three men standing upright quickly vanquished the mess with a wand.

JD recognized him. “You’re Harry Potter!” he said, clearly awestruck.

Potter extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you.” He introduced the other men beside him. “This is Ron Weasley . . . and Draco Malfoy.” He nodded to the two men on the floor. “I have no idea who those chaps are.”

Ezra sized them up. “Mundanes . . . muggles,” he noted.

“They found the port key before we did,” Harry explained.

“Where are we?” one of the guys on the floor – the skinny one who’d thrown up – asked.

“I have a better question,” Larabee scowled. “Who the hell are you two?”

Faceplant Guy got to his feet. “John Watson,” he said in a somewhat shaky voice, then turned to the other man. “Are you alright, Sherlock?”

“Do I look alright?” the other man scoffed, but got to his feet also. “I may be sick again. . . . What happened?”

“This is Sherlock Holmes,” Watson made the introduction.

Larabee frowned. “Are you related to Mycroft Holmes?” he asked.

“No,” Holmes answered, too quickly.

Jake Stone folded his arms and looked him up and down. “He’s Mycroft’s younger brother. He’s a detective. Works with Metro PD in London.” He nodded at the Pooh bear that Sherlock was still holding. “That must be the port key.”

Sherlock dropped the toy as if it were hot.

Nathan, meanwhile, had dug into his bag of assorted remedies and produced a small bottle labeled Emitrol and handed it to Sherlock. “Drink some of that. You’ll feel better.”

“Is that a potion?” Weasley asked.

“Muggle medicine,” Malfoy noted. “Appropriately.”

“So . . .,” Watson began cautiously. “Where are we and what the hell just happened?”

No one answered right away because no one was sure, exactly, what to tell these two men who weren’t even supposed to be there.

Stephen Strange stood for a long moment, staring at Sherlock, until Sherlock finally snapped, “WHAT!?”

Strange shrugged. “You look familiar . . .”

“Do I?” Sherlock took a swig from the bottle Nathan had given him. “How boring.”

Strange was undaunted. “Did anyone ever tell you that you bear a vague resemblance to Tom Hanks?”

“I don’t know who that is,” Sherlock deadpanned.

“AAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!! You’re right!” Deadpool cheered excitedly. “He totally does! _Spash!_ 1984! Daryl Hannah before she got all wrinkly!”

“What are they talking about, John?” Sherlock turned to Watson.

“Seriously, you don’t know who Tom Hanks is?” JD asked.

“Really, Sherwood, everyone knows that,” Deadpool admonished.

“It’s Sherlock,” Holmes scowled. “And I don’t care.”

After a brief conversation – mostly with Watson as Holmes seemed to be annoyed by . . . pretty much everyone – it was determined that the two Brits were there entirely by accident, without a non-magical way to get back to London. Watson was alarmed when he realized exactly how far from home they were.

Sherlock was intrigued, though, and asked Larabee, “What, exactly, is going on here?”

“He could tell you, Starbuck, but then he’d have to kill you,” Deadpool mocked.

“It’s SHERLOCK. And I have a top level MI6 security clearance. I wouldn’t tell anyone even if I cared to, which I don’t, and believe me when I say that my brother ranks so high up in the British government that the Queen salutes _him_ . . .”

“All of the United Kingdom is smaller than this state, though,” Deadpool observed casually.

“What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean!?” Sherlock huffed.

“In fact, it’s smaller than states that are smaller than this state,” Deadpool added.

Watson interjected before things got out of hand. “An explanation of what you’re doing here would be nice. Maybe we can help.”

“He’s got a point,” Stone acknowledged. “They really are a brilliant detective team.”

“I’m the detective,” Sherlock said petulantly. “He’s just an idiot like the rest of you,”

“Hurtful, Sherlock,” Watson responded calmly, then put a gentle hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and added softly, “So, maybe, shut the fuck up for now, okay?” He looked back at Larabee. “I’m a doctor, with combat experience. I could be of use.”

Larabee looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, “Harry, Stephen, Sam, Jake . . . a word in private, if you please.”

The five men conferred briefly before returning to the group.

“Okay,” Larabee said, looking at Holmes and Watson. He gave them a brief rundown of the coordinated worldwide effort to meet the Wraith threat, which had been code-named ‘Operation Gandalf.'

“An alien invasion? Really?” Watson looked amazed and intrigued.

Sherlock had been rendered speechless. Larabee suspected that this was probably not his usual state of being, and that perhaps he found this new tidbit of information a bit outside his comfort zone.

“You can stay if you want, but you become part of my team if you do, which means you do what I say,” Larabee explained.

“I have no problem with that,” Watson answered. Sherlock said nothing, but Watson added, “I’m sure he won’t, either, once he’s got himself sorted.”

“On the other hand, I can open a dimensional gateway that will get you back to London,” Strange explained.

“NO!” Sherlock spoke up. “I want to stay.”

Deadpool clapped a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, harder than was necessary. “Welcome to the team, Shawshank!”

“It’s SHER-LOCK, you vacuously insipid MORON!”

Deadpool feigned surprise. “Wow…. Somebody woke up on the spectrum this morning.”

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and through clenched teeth managed to shout, “SHUT! UP!!!” as he kicked the unicorn duffel bag as hard as he could.

“Every morning, pretty much,” Watson mumbled.

Sherlock lifted his right foot off the ground. “Ow. FUCK!”

The unicorn-spangled bag, filled with roughly 5 tons of every handgun known to man, hadn’t budged.

Nathan moved quickly to examine the injured foot, but Watson got there first. Nathan remembered that he was a doctor, too. So was Stephen Strange, but he was Mr. World Class Neurosurgeon, and mere phalangeal trauma was so far beneath his skill set that he didn’t even look in their direction.

Nathan and Watson exchanged a brief, but knowing look. The fun and games had begun.


	3. A Perfect World

The hangar was going to be their training facility. As well as the tarmac that could accommodate at least a half dozen small jets or one very large one, there was a meeting room, a locker room, a kitchen, a lounge area with tables and comfortable chairs, and oddly, an obstacle course. A fairly difficult one that included a rock climbing wall. A very high one, Larabee noted. Luckily, there were a number of harnesses rigged from the ceiling. It was possible that the entire set-up had been installed to provide exercise for station personnel during the winter, which pretty much never ended on Adak. The island did not get as bitterly cold as some of Alaska did, thanks to air and ocean currents coming by way of Hawaii, but it was never truly warm, either. Still, the equipment looked new, so perhaps it had been installed just for this occasion. There was also a dormitory with 10 bunk beds – 20 beds in all, more than enough, since three of them wouldn’t be needing them.

Larabee gathered everyone in the lounge area and introductions were made all around, more or less. Sherlock Holmes was too busy snooping around the hangar to bother introducing himself to anyone, so John Watson did the honors for both of them. JD and Peter hit it off immediately, which was not surprising since they were both considerably younger than the rest of the group. Josiah and Castiel shared the bond of being fallen angels among men. The British wizards were clearly impressed with Ezra – Stephen, not so much. The doctor seemed to have a rather high opinion of himself. True, he _was_ the Sorcerer Supreme, but that was largely by default – everyone else who could have held the job was dead. Meanwhile Nathan spent a few moments with each person to make sure all of them would be up to the task at hand, physically and mentally.

It was when Buck introduced himself to the Winchesters that things got a bit awkward. He extended his hand, smiling affably as was Buck’s way, but when Sam Winchester clasped it, the demon hunter’s expression changed, not to one of fear, exactly, because the Winchesters really had been there, done that, so many times that it took a lot to scare them, but he did sense something. So did his brother, Dean, who was less inclined to keep his opinion to himself.

“Whoa . . .” he looked Buck up and down, still clasping his hand.

“I know, right?” Sam said.

“What?” Buck asked innocently, but casually pulled his hand away.

“Nothing . . . ,” Sam said quickly, glancing sideways at his brother. “How long have you been with OPTIC?” he changed the subject.

“Since I was about their age,” Buck indicated JD and Peter. “I thought I was joining the Navy . . . but they pulled me right out of boot camp and signed me up.”

“Any particular reason why?” Dean asked.

“Yes,” Buck answered, but didn’t elaborate, much to the brothers' consternation.

“So where are you from?” Sam asked. He clearly wanted more information.

Buck scratched his head. “I don’t rightly know. I grew up in Nevada . . . but I lost track of my mom when I was 4 or 5 or so.”

Sam Winchester didn’t remember his mother, but Dean could sympathize.

Buck, however, realized the real questions they wanted to ask, and changed the subject again. “Same thing happened with most of us. Only Nathan grew up with his real folks. JD and Vin might as well be orphans, like me. Ezra doesn’t know who his father is, and Josiah’s an angel like Castiel. Chris . . . well, less said about that the better,” he winked, then whispered, “Highly classified, and all that.”

The Winchesters wanted to prod for more answers, but Jake Stone and Vin Tanner walked up together to introduce themselves.

“He’s an elf!” Jake, said, pointing at Vin, apparently delighted with that fact. “An elf with a Texas accent,” Stone added, laughing.

“We don’t all talk like we’re from Middle Earth . . .” Vin chided, “or England. No offense to present company.” Vin nodded towards the three British wizards, who were conversing with John Watson.

“One just doesn’t think of Texas and Elves in the same context,” Sam noted.

“And yet, here I am,” Vin declared.

“Do you . . . uh . . . ,” Dean pointed to his own ears.

Vin pulled his long hair back, revealing that he did, in fact, have pointed ears.

“Dude! That is fucked up!” Dean declared and was elbowed harshly by Sam. “But in a good way,” he added quickly. “Like Spock.”

Vin laughed, not offended.

“So, you’re a tech-mage,” Sam asked. “What’s that like?”

That was not an easy question for Vin. If he told the truth – that he was able to have actual conversations with weapons, albeit on a very primal level – most people thought he was crazy. He supposed the Winchesters had heard weirder things, though, so he told them. Then added, “For example, both Watson and Holmes are packing right now, even though that’s illegal in Britain. I can ‘hear’ their guns.” He didn’t add that Watson’s gun had actually _killed_ someone. It was no one’s business.

“Holmes’ brother is some high mucky-muck with MI6,” Stone explained. “He probably gets away with a lot of things.”

“How did a Librarian come to be involved in this operation?” Sam asked.

“One word,” Stone replied. “Artifacts. Can’t say too much more, not yet, but that reminds me . . . “ He withdrew a parcel from the backpack he was carrying. It appeared to be just an ordinary US Postal Service flat-rate express envelope. “’scuse me, gentlemen.”

Stone approached Stephen Strange, who was not going out of his way to introduce himself to anyone, but was instead having a muted conversation with Chris. Stone handed him the parcel.

“This was sent to me yesterday. I presume someone knew we’d both be here.”

That would be Mycroft Holmes, Chris knew, but he didn’t mention it. He doubted that Sherlock Holmes knew that his older brother was one of the key orchestrators of Operation Gandalf. He doubted that Watson and Holmes being there had really been an accident.

Strange tore the envelope open. Inside was a parchment envelope with a wax seal from Horsefeathers Academy, the American counterpart to Hogwarts. Inside that was a wand. It had a note with it that said, “Stephen Strange. Cottonwood root with xihuitl core. 11 inches. Moderate flexibility.”

Strange wasn’t impressed. “I don’t do wand magic.” He dropped the wand back into the envelope and tossed it onto a nearby table.

The wand had attracted the attention of the four other wizards.

“You should at least learn some basic spells,” Harry advised.

“Like what?”

Harry pointed his wand at the now-inactive Winnie-the-Pooh port key that still lay where Sherlock had dropped it and recited the first spell he’d ever learned, “ _Wingardium leviosa!_ ”

The bear rose in the air, and then followed a path traced by Harry’s wand as he drew figure 8s in the air with it.

Strange just snorted and grabbed a corner of his cloak. “ _Cloak. Of. Levitation_ ,” he said, with a big hint of sarcasm.

“What a douche,” Dean Winchester mumbled from a few feet away.

Malfoy looked Strange up and down with clear disdain. “Stephen Strange. Wizard. Turned down your invitation to Horsefeathers Academy . . . Muggle born,” he added with some condescension, but at least it had been years since he’d used the pejorative term 'mud-blood.'

“I thought it was a joke,” Strange replied, with equal condescension. “Aside from the fact that I was fast-tracked to finish medical school _and_ a PhD at 24 . . . . why would I want to spend 7 years learning how to do a Vegas lounge act?”

Ezra fought the urge to make a rude hand gesture. He was the son of a witch and probably a wizard, too, so from his earliest memory, it had been a given that he’d go to Horsefeathers. He’d loved it there. It was different with the mundane-born kids, though, he knew. Sometimes, they – or their parents - couldn’t or wouldn’t accept the truth. With a couple of exceptions, none of the Witchcraft and Wizarding schools forced magic on a child, because that often didn’t end well.

Harry shook his head sadly. His invitation to Hogwarts had been the most wondrously exciting thing that had ever happened to him. He didn’t understand Stephen.

With a surreptitious glance after which he thought no one was looking (but Nathan was), Sherlock picked up the discarded envelop and slipped Stephen’s wand into his jacket. Nathan knew what the end result of that would be, but he supposed it would be best if Sherlock learned for himself.

While everyone finished getting acquainted, Chris took a look at the facilities. The kitchen was stocked with MREs, but there was also actual food there, albeit all canned or frozen or packaged. Somehow, he doubted much cooking would be going on. The MREs would have to serve. In the locker room was a selection of tee-shirts, sweats and military socks and boots – more than enough to outfit all of them, providing the sizes worked out, as he was pretty sure they would. There was an assortment of board games in the lounge area, so, something to do if there was any downtime. There was also a makeshift firing range at the rear of the hangar, Although the P-90s they’d be training with hadn’t been delivered yet, he was pretty sure the arsenal in Deadpool’s rucksack was enough to provide a weapon for everyone there.

He figured they may as well get started. He only had days to turn this team into a cohesive unit. He knew he could do it, but the sooner they started, the better.

“Everyone into the locker room. Get changed and be at the rock wall in 10 minutes. You’re climbing it.”

Peter Parker let out a small whoop of joy, but the others looked at the wall, which was 15 meters high, at least, with varying degrees of trepidation.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” someone with an American accent mumbled.

Larabee only smirked.


	4. Open Range

As expected, a few balked at donning the clothing that would make them all look the same. Deadpool insisted on keeping his own boots and put the sweats on over his red suit. Eventually he was going to overheat, but due to his exceptional healing abilities, that likely wouldn’t do him any harm beyond making him sorry he made that choice, so Larabee ignored it.

Ezra looked down at the loose-fitting garments and sturdy boots and gave Chris a plaintive look. “This is not the level of bespoke tailoring to which I am accustomed,” he complained.

Larabee’s reply was simple. “Stow it, Ezra.”

“Does this make me look fat?” Castiel asked no one in particular, patting his sweatshirt. “I think it makes me look fat.”

“I think we look like a bunch of ragged house elves,” Malfoy said, scowling at his reflection in the mirror.

“What did you say?” Vin asked, a definite threat in his voice. He knew about wizards and their house elves and even though they were technically a different species from him, he did _not_ approve.

Malfoy looked to Ron and Harry for support, found none, and mumbled, “Nothing, never mind.”

Sherlock stared at his boots, then sat down, pulled them on and simply said, “John.” 

Without batting an eye, Watson knelt down and laced them up and tied them, which everyone thought was more than a little odd, but which seemed perfectly normal to the two of them.

Sherlock rolled his eyes when he noticed others staring. “There is a proper way to lace military boots,” he explained. “John’s a soldier. He knows how. Unfortunately, like the rest of you morons, I don’t.”

Everyone looked questioningly down at their own boots.

Watson finished up and added, “Besides, they have to both feel exactly the same, or it won’t do, right?” He patted Sherlock’s knee affectionately.

“Obviously,” Sherlock nodded smugly.

Vin and Jake looked at each other and shrugged.

JD, who had no problem zeroing in on Sherlock’s boots even though he was on the other side of the room, quickly pulled out his laces and re-did them while Peter followed along.

The climbing wall was carved from the actual rock base that the hangar had been hollowed from. It was clearly a new addition. The wall was covered in graffiti – names and dates of hundreds of service members who had been there, dating back from 1938 up until the Navy had abandoned the facility after the turn of the millennium – and the hand and footholds had been cut through it, revealing fresh rock.

“Whoa! Cool!” JD commented when he saw all of the inscriptions. “We have to add our names, too!”

Chris had no problem with that, and no doubt someone there could create, apparate, or conjure paint, but he told the boy, “First things first, JD. We have a job to do.” Then he looked at his combined group. They spanned at least 25 centimeters in height, and probably 35-40 kilos in weight. Some looked strong and agile, while others looked decidedly less so. Looks could be deceiving though. He knew that from personal experience. “Okay, harnesses on – let’s see what you can do.”

Nathan moved to the front to show those who needed it how to don the harnesses and then made sure they were adjusted properly. Peter, Deadpool and the two angels didn’t actually need them. The wizards probably didn’t either. But almost everyone went along. It was Sherlock who refused his, insisting he wouldn’t fall.

Larabee whipped out a tablet, swiped through it a few times, and found the image he was looking for. “What do you see there?” he showed it to Sherlock.

No one else could see the image, except for JD, who exclaimed, “Ewwwww! GROSS!”

“That pink thing that looks like a cauliflower is his brain,” Larabee said calmly. “He didn’t think he needed a harness, either.”

“Bugger off,” Sherlock muttered. But he put the harness on.

“Thank you,” Chris said, not meaning a word of it. He wouldn’t be climbing. He knew he could make it with no effort. No point in showing off. Nathan would stay on the ground, too, just in case someone did get hurt. “What are you waiting for?” he barked. “Get moving!” He slipped off Stephen’s cape as the doctor tried to walk casually past him. “And no levitating!” he shouted. That was an order he never expected to be giving.

>>>>>>>

Watson reached to top of the wall feeling the exertion. It wasn’t as easy as it had been when he was 26. He looked down hoping not to see Sherlock struggling. The detective was tall, but he didn’t have a lot of muscle mass. However, he seemed to be scaling the wall with ease. He probably really hadn’t needed the harness, but John was still glad Larabee insisted on it. Sherlock was reckless enough as it was. He’d badly bruised the last two toes on his right foot kicking that ridiculous sack of guns, but it didn’t seem to be hindering him at all.

Sherlock quickly joined him at the top.

“Where did you learn to do that?” John asked. “And don’t say YouTube.”

“Seriously, John, Mycroft expects me to do his legwork in all kinds of hideous places, yet he has some unfathomable interest in seeing I don’t get killed. I’ve had MI6 training. _All_ of it.”

“You’re good,” Watson smiled.

“Yes, I am.”

“I’m better,” Deadpool taunted, suddenly appearing beside them and placing a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “How’s the foot, Sherwin?”

“It’s Sher-LOCK, and don’t touch me,” Sherlock replied, shrugging off the hand and adding, “Go away. I don’t like you.”

“Well, that leaves a wound in my heart the size of a dust mite,” Deadpool replied.

“Doing all right, then?” John asked, ignoring the almost-Avenger.

“The boots are a good fit,” Sherlock replied. “Almost as if they were intended for me.”

John snorted. “Mycroft led us right into that trap. He wanted us here.”

“No doubt.”

“Who is Mycroft?” Deadpool asked, because he was nosy. He got no answer.

Larabee watched as the top of the wall began to get crowded. The two angels had no problem. They weren’t levitating, exactly, but apparently, angels could make themselves weigh next to nothing, so pulling themselves up with the handholds was no effort. Josiah, in fact, was ‘walking’ his way up the wall using just two fingers. _Show off._

He had instantly regretted taking Stephen’s cape. He’d forgotten that the doctor had very limited strength and movement in his hands. He was going to excuse him from the exercise when he’d seen glowing red claws appear at the tips of Strange’s fingers. Okay, so he’d said ‘no levitating’ – he hadn’t addressed the use of other magic.

“You got that idea from Prince T’challa,” Vin remarked, climbing alongside him.

" _King_ T'challa," the sorcerer corrected, then nodded. “His are vibranium, though – I’m sure he could shred this rock with them.”

The other four wizards probably could have employed some sort of spell, also, but they didn’t. Potter, Weasley and Malfoy had all played Quidditch at Hogwarts, and apparently, they’d kept up their physical conditioning since. They all made it to the top, as did Ezra, despite complaining rather vocally that gentlemen did not debase themselves by breaking out in a sweat.

It was pretty clear that the Winchesters had probably never had much time to invest in outdoor recreation. Still, they were both young and strong, and, Larabee surmised, determined not to look foolish in front of everyone else. Peer pressure could be a great motivator.

Peter stuck to the rock like a bug – he wasn’t even using the hand and foot holds. He could have climbed the wall if it had been a sheer face. JD was doing surprisingly well, also. Or maybe not so surprising since he could easily see the contours of each hold, and could probably mentally calculate which ones were the most efficient. He probably had the entire climb mapped out in his head before he even started.

Vin stayed alongside Stephen, even though he probably could have gone faster. Jake probably could have climbed more quickly, also, but he was distracted by examining the graffiti.

Buck had the most difficulty. His natural instinct was to climb like a reptile, something that was impossible to do with human hands and feet. He stuck with it though.

Eventually, the entire team was at the top of the wall. As soon as Chris gave the order to come back down, Strange’s cloak flew out of his hand and back onto the doctor’s back. To Nathan’s horror, Deadpool and the wizards – Strange included – removed their harnesses and simply jumped. Deadpool landed with a tuck-and-roll and sprang to his feet, somehow completely unharmed, while the wizards’ descent slowed abruptly just before they hit the ground.

While the others rappelled down, Peter and JD seemed to be conferring at the top of the wall, and then, without warning, JD removed his harness and jumped, too.

The instant before he crashed into the tarmac, Peter slung a web strand around his chest and snagged him neatly.

“THAT was _epic_!!” JD laughed as he swung back and forth from the strand.

“Are you fucking NUTS!?” Buck slapped the back of the kid’s head, which only made him swing in a wider arc.

Peter lowered JD all the way to the ground, then slid quickly down. “He wasn’t in any danger, honest. I wouldn’t have let him get hurt,” he said, sounding somewhat fearful.

Buck slapped him on the back of the head, too.


	5. Tin Cup

While the rock wall had been interesting, it hadn’t exactly yielded the effect Larabee had hoped for. It had been every man for himself, and the stronger ones had not paused to assist the weaker ones. They had all been determined not to fail, which was a good thing, but he supposed it was too early in the game to hope for true team bonding. He realized he was dealing with some highly superior intellects, dominant personalities – and massive egos. It would take time.

He decided to forgo testing everyone’s unarmed combat skills for the time being. He knew what the Winchesters were capable of, as well as the angels. Deadpool was a mercenary, so it stood to reason he knew how to fight. Anyone wanting to take a punch at Peter would have to catch him first, and good luck with that. His team members were all trained in martial arts, and the wizards had better be able to protect themselves with magic, otherwise the entire operation was an exercise in futility. That left Stone and the two non-wizard Brits.

He gathered the three of them together. “Can any of you guys fight?” The question attracted everyone’s attention, because, really, who didn’t like a good fight?

“I’m ex-military,” Watson answered. “I’ve had plenty of training in hand-to-hand combat.”

“Do bar fights count?” Stone asked.

“Depends on whether or not you won,” Larabee said.

Holmes said nothing. Larabee wasn’t even sure he was paying attention. But if he was Mycroft Holmes’ brother, there was a pretty good chance he knew how to defend himself, at least against humans. Wraiths were stronger than any of them, though, with the possible exception of Buck, so maybe it was a moot point. He decided to move on.

The P-90s still hadn’t arrived, but thanks to Deadpool, there were plenty of handguns available for a round of target practice. It was somewhat unnerving to discover that Holmes and Watson had both had weapons on them the entire time, especially since they were technically not even supposed to be there.

But Watson, as it turned out, was a dead shot, as good Vin. Sherlock wasn’t bad, either, although he seemed more interested in just pulling the trigger repeatedly than in hitting anything. Peter had never fired a gun, and even though the wizards had no use for them, Malfoy and Weasley wanted to give it a go, so Deadpool gave them small-calibre pistols to practice with, after showing them how to load, hold and aim them.

After an hour or so, the entire hangar smelled of gunpowder. Chris liked the smell, and apparently, no one else seemed to mind it. No one complained about the noise, either. Good. _No wusses on this team_ , Larabee thought.

>>>>>>>

It was time for the mission briefing. So far, the team only had a rough idea of why they were there, but now they’d get more detailed information; Stargate Command had provided mission reports, as well as schematics, analysis, and photographs – some of them rather graphic. The primary topic was how the Wraith fed from humans, and what the end result of that was. They had few weaknesses, one being the organic nature of their ships, and the fact that some people, in the Pegasus galaxy at least, could sense them and warn of an impending attack. One group of people had developed a virus that rendered them poisonous to the Wratihs, but it also killed 50% of the humans infected, so, nobody was going there.

It was a highly receptive audience – they caught on quickly and asked intelligent questions.

For the most part, anyway.

At the back of the room, Sherlock, JD and Peter had opted to sit on the floor, probably because they assumed it would be less obvious what they were doing. Somehow, Sherlock had Stephen’s wand, and his attention appeared focused on it rather than on the discussion.

Peter looked on as JD offered advice in a whispered voice. “Use this,” he set down the torn Express envelope that had contained the wand. “Now, if you want to make it levitate, the incantation is, ‘wingardium leviosa!’”

“Show me,” Holmes commanded.

JD put his hands up. “No way. I’m not touching that thing. You just kind of have to flick it . . . like this . . .” He demonstrated with an imaginary wand.

Sherlock tried it, repeatedly, while the question-and-answer discussion continued at the front of the room. He finally sighed, exasperated. “Give me a different one,” he ordered JD.

JD thought for a moment. “Well, it’s torn . . . I think the incantation to fix it is, ‘Reparo!’”

“You _think_? You don’t _know_?” Sherlock scoffed.

“Well, I’m not a wizard, am I? I just learned the incantations from Ezra."

Sherlock tried it. The envelope sat there, still torn.

“How do I set it on fire?” Sherlock asked.

“Uh . . . that’s probably not a good idea,” Peter offered.

“Shut up, no one asked you,” Sherlock huffed.

“Wow, that was rude,” JD said.

Sherlock looked at Peter. “My apologies.”

Peter nodded.

“But do shut up,” Sherlock added. “What’s the incantation?” he asked JD.

JD looked around uncertainly, but answered, “’Incendio!’”

Sherlock tried it. Three times in a row. No result. His incantations were actually spot on, but when all was said and done, the world’s leading consulting detective was a muggle, so nothing happened.

“HOLMES! DUNNE! PARKER!” Larabee barked. “Are any of you paying one bit of attention to this briefing?”

Peter and JD looked like deer in the headlights, but without taking his gaze from the wand, Sherlock repeated, verbatim, every word Larabee had said for the past 15 minutes, in a robotic monotone that was much faster than most people were capable of listening to. When he was finished, he flicked the wand one last time and commanded, “Wingardium leviosa!”

Predictably, the spell had no effect. He looked at the wand in frustration and yelled at it, “What is the bloody POINT OF YOU!!” and flung it away.

The wand abruptly changed course in mid-air and flew directly into Stephen Strange’s hand, hitting his palm with a loud smack.

“What the …” the doctor muttered, and then tried to drop the wand. But having waited almost three decades to be claimed by its rightful owner, it refused to budge, no matter how hard Strange tried to shake it free. “This is ridiculous!” he said, then actually spoke to the wand. “Stop it!”

Ezra pointed his own wand at Strange’s hand. “Relashio!”

Strange’s wand fell to the floor. Ezra picked it up, pulled open Strange’s cloak – which hung unnervingly in the air, all by itself - and tucked the wand into a perfectly sized pocket that Strange would have sworn wasn’t there before.

“It knows it’s yours,” Ezra said. “It appears to not matter that you don’t want it.”

“Well, that was weird,” Dean Winchester commented.

“I’ve seen weirder,” his brother replied. “So have you.”

Larabee continued with the briefing, not bothering to ask for anyone’s attention. If they wanted their life forces sucked out by Wraiths, then let them all go ahead and fart around instead of listening to him. He technically didn’t have a life force, so, no worries on his part.

The briefing concluded without incident, and Larabee took the wizards aside so they could start formulating a plan of action. They’d be the key to the upcoming battle.

>>>>>>>

Sam Winchester took the opportunity to slip Stephen’s wand from the levitating cloak. He’d read the note that had been with it and had Dean look up xihuitl – which turned out to be an Aztec word that meant ‘comet’ or maybe ‘meteor.’

“A meteorite core makes sense,” Sam said, hefting the wand. “It’s heavier than it looks.”

“So . . . Aztec magic?” Dean asked. “What do we know about that?”

Sam shook his head. “Nothing that’s not found in other cultures . . . illusionists, shapeshifters, curses, omens. Of course, that information is based on observations of Spanish priests. All of the original Aztec codices on magic were destroyed by the Catholic Church.”

Dean took the wand and waved it around a few times. A stream of white light, faint but clearly there, emerged from the end of it, which Dean didn’t notice because he was too busy brandishing it like a light saber.

Sam grabbed his wrist to stop him. “Dean! Did you see that?”

“What?”

“The end of the wand . . . when you were waving it around. Something was happening . . .”

“No shit?” He flicked the wand up and down a few times, but it still looked like a piece of wood.

“Do it like you were doing it before . . . you know, like Luke Skywalker.”

Dean attempted to approximate his earlier movements. The light was fainter this time, but it was definitely there.

“Not your wand, Tinkerbell,” Nathan appeared out of nowhere and snatched it away.

“It’s a paranormal artifact,” Sam pointed out. “We should be examining it.”

“ _Examining_ it,” Nathan iterated. “Not attempting to _use_ it. It won’t work for a mundane, but you two are not that. I don’t really know _what_ you are, and there is no way to know what you might be able to do with this. So, no.”

“Well, he's no fun,” Dean mumbled as Nathan walked away.


	6. Robin Hood

Stephen reluctantly agreed to let the other wizards teach him to use his wand, conceding it might be best if they were all on the same page, and also to keep anyone else from messing with it. He was surprisingly adept. He got most of the spells to work on the first attempt.

Harry explained the self-protective Patronus charm to him. “It’s usually not taught so soon, but you can already use magic, so let’s give it a go. First, you have to focus on a good or happy memory – the best experience you can think of – and stay focused on that and nothing else.”

Stephen had no doubts about his ability to concentrate. It had always been exceptional. Recalling a profoundly gratifying experience didn’t take him long either. He recalled being stranded on Mt. Everest by the Ancient One, which in itself was terrifying, but then to survive, he’d been forced to surrender his will to the magic that was in him, and he’d conjured his first dimensional gateway to get back to Kamar-Taj. There had been nothing in his life - not even his first surgery - even remotely close to the exhilaration he'd felt at that moment.

As he concentrated on it, a bright, pure white light poured from his wand. “Expecto patronum!” he uttered the incantation.

And there it was. It hovered in the air for a moment and then its magnificent wings spread out and it took flight, leaving behind a trail of glowing embers.

“Wow . . .,” JD gasped.

“That was awesome!” Peter exclaimed.

Most everyone who had never seen a patronus agreed.

“Pteropus poliocephalus,” Sherlock spoke. “Australian fruit bat, commonly called a flying fox, even though it’s not a fox.”

“Big fucking flying _rat_ ,” Deadpool remarked.

 _“Bats aren’t rodents,”_ Sam, Sherlock, Jake and JD all pointed out at the same time.

“I think that was very cool,” Vin said.

“Yeah,” Stephen had to admit, looking at his wand with new respect. "It was."

“Do it again!” JD urged.

“It’s a powerful charm,” Harry cautioned. “It’s best not to over use it.”

“Enough for now,” Larabee called for everyone’s attention.

He had the five wizards form a rank. The other four wizards had limited experience with quantum magic, so it was Stephen’s turn to provide instruction as he demonstrated how to conjure dimensional gateways. They used their hands instead of their wands, which was a new experience. Most of the non-wizards watched, fascinated, knowing the gateways could possibly be their escape route from the Wraith ships. The wizards all had to get good at it, and quickly.

Deadpool joined the wizards as they practiced, even though he had absolutely no reason for doing so. He mimicked their movements and added some of his own, including pirouettes and plies (the man actually was a pretty good dancer). Chris allowed the distraction, because on an alien ship full of life-sucking alien lifeforms, the wizards were going to have to be able to focus their attention no matter what was going on around them.

Strange, though, finally had enough. He conjured a shield and sent it slamming into the red-clad figure. Deadpool came to rest under the nose of the Stark private jet.

Malfoy whipped out his wand and quickly levitated the craft and moved it forward and then dropped it so Deadpool was pinned by the landing gear.

‘Ugh! Hey, come on guys . . .” Deadpool gasped – not very loudly, because it was hard to speak with half his rib cage squashed flat.

The wizards pointedly ignored him and went about their conjuring, but Deadpool sensed movement nearby.

He looked up, as far as his pinched neck would allow, anyway, to see Sherlock’s upside-down face studying him.

“Hey! Shamrock, buddy. A little help here . . . “ No response. The detective continued to just stare at him. “I’ll make you a deal, Shipwreck. Get me out of this and there’s a dozen powdered sugar donuts in it for you . . . Only not sugar . . . .And maybe not donuts. Probably more like just a white powdery substance . . .”

That elicited a wry grin from Sherlock.

There was a brief pause and Deadpool heard someone walking up the ramp into the aircraft. A couple of minutes later, the engines roared to life.

Everyone turned in the direction of the sound.

“Who the hell is in that plane?” Larabee shouted and then began a quick head count.

Watson was the first to come to a conclusion, though. “Bloody hell! Sherlock!”

The plane lurched forward dragging the ramp with it, stopped, lurched again, stopped, and then taxied directly into the rock wall of the hangar leaving the ramp behind. Its nose crumpled like cardboard as the engines cut off.

With the weight of the landing gear gone, Deadpool got up and shook himself to regain some semblance of human form as his splayed rib cage snapped back into place.

He waved at the wizards. “No hard feelings, guys! Apology accepted!”

“Well, great,” Buck intoned. “Now the plane is useless.”

“We aren’t using the plane,” Chris explained. “We wouldn’t all fit in it anyway. We’re going to make a transdimensional jump straight to Stargate Command. That’s why we have wizards.”

“Tony Stark still isn’t going to be happy about that,” Jake pointed to the nose of the aircraft.

Potter whipped out his wand and commanded, "Reparo!" and the plane instantly looked normal again. 

Sherlock appeared in the plane’s doorway, not even acknowledging the damage he’d almost caused. “Ramp!” he demanded. Peter and JD rolled the ramp up so the detective could climb down.

He made it to the bottom of the steps before his knees buckled and he abruptly sat down on the bottom step. “John?” he said softly.

Watson was there in an instant. “Are you all right?”

“No, I am not. I’ve two purple toes, and. . . I’m really tired.” The last was something out of the ordinary for the normally indefatigable detective. Even he sounded surprised by the admission.

Watson moved to examine him more closely, but Nathan interceded, handing Watson a blood glucose meter. Watson gave Nathan a questioning look, but then quickly – so there would be no argument – pricked one of Sherlock’s fingers. The detective looked at him resentfully.

“It’s the wand,” Nathan explained. “A wand can’t channel magic through a mundane,” he used the American word for ‘muggle’, “But some wands will try and it will just . . . drain them. In all likelihood, he’ll be fine.”

“How do you know this?” Watson asked.

“Because every idiot on my team has tried to use Ezra’s wand.”

“Josiah blew up a Jeep,” JD provided eagerly. “But it just made me throw up.”

“I need chips,” Sherlock muttered. “And biscuits.”

Watson read the test strip, frowning at the US reading, which was different from the numbers he was used to. He quickly did a mental conversion. The reading was very low, just barely in normal range. He clapped Sherlock’s shoulder. “Yes, you do, and sooner rather than later.” He looked at his watch. They had been there eight hours and no one had eaten. It had been at least three hours longer than that since he and Sherlock had breakfast that morning, which had just been tea and toast. “I think we need a break,” he looked to Nathan for moral support.

“Did anyone think to bring food?” Nathan asked, expecting the answer to be ‘no.’

Larabee surprised him by stating, “There’s MREs and some other stuff in the kitchen.”

“MREs are gross!” JD complained, even though he’d never actually had one.

“Maybe something that’s not prepackaged, freeze-dried and possibly radiated?” Nathan asked hopefully. He didn’t trust MREs.

“Not a problem,” Harry stated. “We can conjure something.”

“I’m talking about _real_ food,” Nathan admonished, “not magic that looks like food.”

“Conjuring food is relatively easy,” Ezra added, “especially if we already have ingredients.”

They decided to let Ron Weasley do the honors, since he was best at it. He’d learned from his mum who’d had a family of nine to feed.

After rummaging through the kitchen to see what was available, a few accurately applied strokes of his wand was all it took, and in minutes, everyone magically had a plate in their hands piled with exactly what they wanted to eat, even if they hadn’t known what that was.

Larabee examined his gigantic dish of chocolate ice cream and then glared at everyone, daring anyone to comment. No one did.

JD and Peter laughed when they discovered they were holding the same thing – mac and cheese, the stuff from a box.

“A _salad_?” Dean scoffed at his brother. “You can have anything you want, and you wish for _salad_?” A large, warm pie with golden crust had appeared in Dean’s own hands.

Sam ignored him and stabbed a cherry tomato, wondering how it could possibly be real. It looked and tasted like it was, but he was kind of afraid to swallow it.

“Transfiguration,” Ezra commented, noticing his hesitation. “It no doubt started out as a canned tomato.”

“You guys can do that?” Vin asked. He held up his tuna sandwich. “This isn’t going to start trying to swim, is it?”

Deadpool removed his mask to eat his triple cheeseburger. Most of them knew about the scars that disfigured his face, but actually _seeing_ them caused a couple of involuntary gasps.

Sherlock felt compelled to observe, “THAT is beyond question the most profoundly disturbing thing I have ever . . .”

“Sherlock!” Watson nudged him sharply, cutting him off.

“Not good?”

“ _Filters,_ Sherlock,” he whispered. “We talked about that, remember?”

Sherlock smiled pleasantly and held his plate out to Deadpool like a peace offering. “Chips?”

Wade took a handful of the ketchup-drenched fries, as well as two of Sherlock’s cookies. “You still look like Tom Hanks.”

Stephen Strange was subdued, and sounded uncharacteristically compassionate when he said softly, “Maybe magic can fix that.”

Deadpool cocked his head in Strange’s direction, but the doctor was at a loss for more words. Magic had fixed him though not in the way he’d expected. But Kamar-Taj was decimated, and the ones who had helped him were gone. “Just saying,” he added.

“There’s FOUR pies in here!” Dean broke the awkward moment. He stabbed the round pastry on his plate in each quadrant. “Cherry, apple, blueberry and peach. . . “ He punched Ron lightly on the arm. “You totally ROCK dude!”


	7. The Postman

As they were finishing up the meal, there was a rumbling vibration throughout the hangar, followed by the hangar’s main door opening. Larabee made a mental note to find out how that actually happened, since no one on the inside had opened the door, and it seemed odd that just any random aircraft would be able to open it remotely.

A few moments later, a . . . something that no one recognized . . . glided onto the tarmac. It had no wings, just two odd protrusions on each side. There was no visible engine, and it was completely silent as it hovered briefly, then settled gently onto the tarmac.

Everyone, including the wizards who were used to seeing strange things do even stranger things, stared in awe.

Finally, JD spoke up. “What the hell _is_ that?”

“That,” Jake Stone replied, “is what I believe is called a ‘puddle jumper.’” But he didn’t sound too sure.

A ramp opened on one end (whether it was the front or back, it was hard to tell) of the thing, and two men emerged. One wore black BDUs, and had hair that seemed to grow in every possible direction. The other man was huge – taller than Josiah, solid muscle, with long dreadlocks, a beard, and a piercing, intimidating glare. He wore a leather vest over a broad chest and shoulders, and leather pants that didn’t really look all that comfortable.

“Who’s Larabee?” the man in the BDUs asked.

Larabee stepped forward. As he did, Peter and JD darted behind the larger man and tried to make their way up the ramp to have a look inside the craft. The big man nonchalantly grabbed them both, one in each arm, and lifted them off the ground, where they were left dangling from his huge arms.

The man in black introduced himself. “Colonel John Sheppard.” He indicated his companion. “That’s Ronan Dex.”

“Can you put us down?” Peter asked Ronan politely. “Please?”

Ronan released the pair of teens and they crashed to the floor.

“I’ve brought your P-90s,” Sheppard explained. “Not sure you’ll even need them with the wizards and what the Library has sent, but better too much preparation than not enough, right?”

“What IS this?” Vin asked, running a hand along the sleek side of the puddle jumper. It had weapons, and they were speaking to him, but he didn’t understand. It was like listening to a foreign language. This was not any kind of technology he knew. 

Then, it hit him. “This is an _alien_ ship!”

Sheppard nodded. “More or less. We found dozens of them in Atlantis. They are capable of space travel as well as suborbital and atmospheric flight. And . . . they fit through the Stargates. Convenient.”

“But they have no wings,” Sherlock observed. “How can they fly in the atmosphere?”

“Magic?” Ron Weasley offered.

“Sort of . . .” Sheppard hedged, then admitted, “We don’t really know how they work.”

“How do you learn to fly them, then?” JD asked. He could plainly see the interior. There was no cockpit, at least not in the usual sense.

“Only a few humans can fly them,” Jake Stone offered. “Humans who have what is called the ‘ATA gene’ – long story.” He apparently wasn’t going to tell it, though, because he turned to Sheppard. “You’ve brought something from The Library?”

Sheppard nodded. “The suits. Are you Jake Stone?”

Jake nodded.

“There’s ten of them.” He indicated the puddle jumper. “Help yourself.”

Jake eagerly entered the strange craft. So did Vin, since it didn’t seem like anyone was going to stop him.

Jake quickly spotted a metal case bearing The Library’s seal. “This must be it.” He opened it up.

Inside were numerous objects that looked like gloves, but Vin sensed they were much, much more. This was powerful weaponry. Extremely powerful. Vin was almost overwhelmed by the massive flow of communication coming from it.

The ‘gloves’ were all different colors. “Why is that?” Vin asked, tentatively touching one.

“I guess so we know who is who,” Jake shrugged.

He closed the case and they left the puddle jumper. Ronan had already unloaded the large, black metal crate containing the P-90s. He’d leave them for Larabee to distribute. The really important cargo was the case Jake Stone was holding, with Vin's help.

The Librarian looked at his gathered comrades with undisguised glee, and opened the case to display the contents.

“Are those, like, _Iron Man suits_!?” JD gaped in awe.

“Yes, for those of us who aren’t enhanced or don’t have superpowers.” Stone answered. He began to walk down the ranks. “Form a line, please,” he grinned.

No one balked at that. They all wanted to see the case full of Stark armor.

Josiah was approached first. “Angel . . . don’t need one,” he spoke up. Beside him, Castiel raised a fist and Josiah obligingly bumped it.

“Magic,” Ezra, Potter, Weasley, Malfoy and Strange all announced as their respective turns came up.

“Can’t be killed,” Deadpool declined.

“Can’t sling webs in one,” Peter pointed out, and besides, he had his own suit.

“Demon DNA,” Sam Winchester stated. “Probably don’t need it.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that,” Stone said, and shoved a copper-colored suit at him.

“I am _not_ wearing one of those,” Sherlock said petulantly when his turn came. "They look ridiculous."

“Then you aren’t coming with us,” Chris told him. “And you know you want to . . . Your choice.”

Sherlock tried to outstare Larabee, but like everyone else, he failed. “Oh sod it all,” he sighed. “I’ll take the black one.”

“The black one is _mine_ ,” Chris said. “You can have the grey one.” He shoved the grey glove – somewhat harder than was necessary – at Sherlock’s chest.

“Cock,” Sherlock muttered, but took the suit.

Everyone else who didn’t have protective super-powers each took a suit. Stone would show them how they worked, but pulling off his shirt, he announced, “They fit better if you strip down to your underwear.”

After clothing and boots were discarded with varying degrees of enthusiasm, Stone held up his left hand and then slipped his glove on. He had the orange suit, and a list of who was wearing what color. He also had a laser engraver that he planned to use to etch the names on the front and back of the expanded suits.

Larabee examined the engraver. “You know, with this the suits all could have been the same color.”

Stone shrugged. “The Library pretty much does what it wants. Clearly it was an aesthetic decision.”

The suits did all have a nice, metallic finish. They’d look good, if nothing else.

Stone continued with the demonstration. “To activate it, you press this, here . . .”

JD jumped the gun and activated his suit. In an instant, he was covered from neck to toe in Stark armor.

“Oh wow, how cool is this?!”

Stone shook his head. “As I was saying, once the suit is activated, it will size itself to fit you. The helmet activates separately.” He pointedly didn’t show how. “It shouldn’t feel confining in any way. You should have complete freedom of movement.” He activated his own suit, and the others followed.

Stone went down the line with his list:  
Black: Larabee  
Grey: Holmes  
Green: Watson  
Blue: Tanner  
Yellow: Jackson  
Red: Dunne  
Orange: Stone  
Purple: D. Winchester  
Brown: S. Winchester  
Indigo: Wilmington

The suits all activated without incident and soon the ten men wearing them stood resplendent in the colorful high-tech armor – all with the Stark Industries logo on the front. Product placement was everything.

Deadpool clapped his hands together gleefully. “Oh WOW!!! This is like, a shitload of AWESOME!!” he exclaimed. “You look like VOLTRON LIONS! . . . If Voltron was an octopus. . . With ten legs.”

“Then he’d be a squid,” Sherlock pointed out. “And who is Voltron?”

Deadpool looped an arm around Sherlock’s neck, and planted a kiss on his face. “You’re adorable Sheetrock, you know that? I think I love you!”

Sherlock disentangled himself. “It’s Sherlock, and Stop. _Touching._ Me.”

Sheppard and Ronan had looked on, impressed. "Nice," Sheppard remarked, examining the ten men in their armor. He handed Larabee a small flash drive. "Updated mission briefing," he explained. Then he half-saluted Larabee. "I'll leave you to it. See you in Atlantis." He headed back for the puddle jumper and in seconds it was floating out of the hangar.

"Atlantis?!" Watson gasped. "Does he mean the _real_ Atlantis?"

"Yes, he does," Jake Stone supplied, then explained, "Atlantis is more than a city. It's a ship. It left Earth thousands of years ago, and sat in the Pegasus galaxy for thousands more, until we found it again. It's back on Earth now."

"It is?!" JD exclaimed. "Where?"

Jake could only shrug. "The Library probably knows. I don't, though."

"Okay, suits off," Larabee commanded, changing the subject. He looked at his watch. It was 2100 local time, which meant some of the Brits had probably been awake for over 20 hours. "One hour of down time, then everyone hits the racks."

A few of the civilians looked confused by the statement.

"He means go to bed," Buck provided.


	8. No Way Out

'Downtime' had some of them pulling out cards or board games from the rec area, while lamenting the fact that no one had brought a computer, except for Larabee, who was not letting anyone use his, and Sam Winchester, ditto.

A surprisingly (or maybe not so much, considering who he was dealing with) large group headed straight for the heavy crate that held the P-90s. It was securely sealed with a keypad lock, but Larabee dared not assume that would stop it from being opened, With a sigh, he settled in to read the new updated mission briefing Sheppard had delivered, trusting that no major mayhem was about to ensue.

"Can you open it, Ez?" Vin whispered conspiratorially as the group encircled the crate.

"I doubt it," Ezra replied, but took out his wand and attempted a spell, "Alohomora!" Nothing happened. The crate stayed closed.

"It's a digital lock," Strange offered. He was playing solitaire at one of the tables, not really interested in ordinary firearms. "Your dinky little spells won't work."

Ezra glared at the Sorcerer but then sighed. "As much as it pains me to say so, he's right." Usually, magic made mundane technology not work, but sometimes the opposite was true. "Digital technology is its own magic - it can create its own wards. Old spells aren't always effective."

JD looked closely at the key pad. He could see that only 4 keys had fingerprints on them. "The numbers are 1, 4, 6, and 8, but I don't know what order."

Sherlock gently placed all five fingers of his right hand over the pad. Then, after a few seconds, he punched in the combination and the crate popped open.

Ezra frowned openly. "How can you possibly do that?" 

"I'm a genius and you're all idiots," the detective scoffed.

"You need to can that crap right now, Holmes," Chris said out without looking away from his computer. "At least five people here are as smart as you think you are. Jake is probably smarter."

The Librarian winced at the comment, but didn't deny it.

Vin snorted. "Genius? Yeah, right. I don't think so."

The others turned to him with curious expressions - although in Sherlock's case, it was more of a death-glare. "He's a tech-mage like me," Vin said, then looked pointedly at Holmes. "They talk you, don't they? Phones, computers. . . electronic locks."

Sherlock tried to look annoyed, but Vin could see that his observation was possibly an epiphany for the detective.

"You didn't know? That there is a name for what you are?" Vin asked.

"Other than annoying?" Strange muttered, mostly to himself, since he wasn't actually with the group.

Holmes stared at Vin and blinked, twice.

"You've rebooted his hard drive," Deadpool joked.

"Are you an elf, too?" Ezra asked.

Sherlock backed away from an attempt to push his dark curls back. "I don't have pointed ears!" he scoffed.

"Maybe not, but I bet someone in your bloodline did," Vin observed.

_"One of these things is not like the others,"_ Deadpool sang.

John Watson frowned. He wasn't one hundred percent sure Sherlock was telling the truth - he'd never actually seen his flat mate's ears, now that he thought about it. He'd seen Mycroft's, but then, the brothers bore only the vaguest resemblance to each other. He had actually entertained the possibility that one, or both, of the Holmes brothers was adopted. He shrugged it off. It didn't really matter to him. Sherlock was Sherlock. There was really no one else like him, elf or not.

 Sherlock apparently had decided to ignore the entire conversation. "Yes, well, debate amongst yourselves. Boring." Holmes dismissed everyone else, lifting a P-90 and eyeing it curiously.

The others did the same, appreciating the feel of the compact assault rifles. They were small and light as automatic weapons went, but they were also impressively accurate and packed a lot of firepower.

The two angels had settled into a game of checkers and were ignoring the others. The British wizards also had little interest in the weapons. They had drifted off on their own and were discussing their team mates in hushed tones. 

"Standish appears all right," Malfoy said. "A proper wizard, at least."

"Yeah," Ron agreed. "Not sure about the other one, though," he referred to Stephen Strange, "He seems a bit . . ."

". . . of a prig?" Malfoy laughed.

Harry had his misgivings about Stephen Strange, also, but pointed out, "He did take on Dormammu with less than a year of training. That speaks volumes about his courage and skill."

"And his arrogance," Malfoy snorted. "It's a miracle he survived."

Ron and Harry exchanged surreptitious glances. Malfoy was the last person to be talking about arrogance, but they had to agree with the miracle part. 

"He did show us how to create the dimensional gateways," Ron said, clearly impressed. 

"Apparently any wizard can do that," Malfoy scoffed.

"But we have always used a port key," Harry stated, "He taught us how using nothing but his hands."

"Which are creepy looking, by the way," Ron shuddered. The American wizard's hands were covered with scars from deep cuts, and his fingers were not entirely straight. They shook, and looked like they hurt.

"Ron!" Harry hissed.

"Well, just saying . . ."

"He's could use magic to make them work," Malfoy noted. 

"He doesn't, though," Harry said thoughtfully. 

Strange seemed to sense they were talking about him. He looked directly at them, which quickly silenced the three wizards.

Nathan decided to intervene when Deadpool produced ammunition for the P-90s. "Put the hardware away," he admonished. "No one is going to be doing any shooting tonight."

Deadpool started to make a comment, which Nathan was fairly sure was going to be sexual and rude. "Don't even . . ." he warned the mercenary. He took back all of the weapons and re-crated them, then the lights dimmed, leaving everyone with no real choice but to retire for the night.

The lavatory had been stocked with everything - toothbrushes, soap, towels. Whoever had been in charge of getting the base ready had been thorough. The dormitory was chilly, but the bunks were surprisingly comfortable, with gel foam mattresses and heated blankets, and soon almost everyone had crawled into one.

Holmes had wandered off, though.

"Is he having second thoughts about being here?" Nathan asked Holmes' friend Watson.

"He'll be fine," the doctor answered. "It will just take him a bit to sort out that he's not the smartest person in the room."

"You can still leave," Nathan told him. "If you're having misgivings . . ."

Watson looked at him with surprising defiance. "Not on your life, mate. No way we are leaving now." He grinned. "We've got Iron Man suits, don't we?"


	9. Men of Steel

The night did not pass quietly. What they had learned during the day, both about the horrifying threat to mankind's very existence and the fact that they were expected to confront that threat, had been a lot for some of the team to assimilate. The flash drive Sheppard had given to Chris had dossiers on everyone, including, thanks to Mycroft Holmes, the two unexpected members of their team. He'd shared the information with Nathan. who had discovered that many of those present had disturbing histories. Watson had been seriously wounded in Afghanistan, and that had perhaps been the _least_ traumatic experience. Holmes had been tortured at some point. His file was scant on the details, but Mycroft had made sure that part was known. Same with Deadpool - his abilities had only manifested themselves after he had been subjected to extreme pain, fear and stress, and then he'd been burned, severely. The three British wizards had faced the horror of Voldemort when they were scarcely more than children. Then there was Stephen Strange and his encounter with Dormammu - an entity that no one was sure what it even was - never mind the horrific accident that had cost him his surgical career. And the Winchesters - God only knew how they were still sane. Buck, Vin, JD and Peter had all lost their parents - minor trauma by comparison but still . . . And Chris . . . well, Chris was perfectly sane. Chris was pretty much perfectly everything - which was an entire issue unto itself. 

Nathan sighed. He wasn't a therapist, but it looked like he might have to fill that role at some point.

Stephen Strange hadn't wanted to eat magic food for breakfast, so he had opened a portal into a Walmart somewhere in Seattle. He took JD and Peter with him and they returned with the makings of a real breakfast which Jake Stone, Ezra and John Watson were busily concocting.

"Who paid for all that," Larabee wanted to know.

Strange shrugged dismissively. "American Express. Don't leave home without it."

"You know, you don't have an actual income as the Sorcerer Supreme," Larabee reminded him.

"Tell me about it," the sorcerer sighed. He'd once been quite well off - high-rise city apartment, expensive clothes, fancy car. It all didn't really seem to matter much anymore. His credit cards were still active somehow, but to be perfectly honest he'd found the card he'd used in the plane and Stark Industries was footing the bill.

After everyone had eaten, it was time to break out the suits again. The wizards would continue practicing working in tandem, but the ones who needed the protective armor were going to have to learn how to use it.

Everyone was eager to learn what the suits could do. 

Too eager, maybe.

JD accidentally activated the thrusters and ended up tipping himself over and hitting the ground head first, and Vin accidentally fired off a stun pulse that would have hit Harry if he hadn't been able to deflect it at the last instant with a spell.

"Quit fooling around!" Larabee ordered, exasperated already. "The suits are going to be a lot more complicated with the helmet displays. You need to pay attention."

They hadn't actually donned the helmets the day before. They did so now at Jake's direction.

As soon as they did, Holmes grasped his head like he was suddenly in pain. Jake went to him. "What is it?" he asked. The other man didn't - or couldn't - answer. 

Watson, as usual, was right there. "Sherlock?" Still no answer, but Watson knew. "It's the sensory input . . . it's too much."

"Shit." Stone should have realized that the tech mage would have that problem. It had to be like the suit was screaming at him. He lowered the audio and visual input settings on Holmes' suit and then quickly did the same for Tanner, who had not complained, but who let out a deep breath like he'd been holding it. 

"Better?" Jake asked him.

"Yeah," Tanner nodded. "Much."

"Absurd, preposterous suit," Holmes muttered, although now that he was not being bombarded with sensory input, he was holding out his arms and admiring the fit.

Stone then noticed that the shorter Winchester - he'd have to get their names straight - was reacting the same way Sherlock had. Damn - the suits were clearly designed for someone with normal senses. He could understand the tech mages, because they were actually communicating with the technology - Holmes with the microprocessors and Tanner with the weapon system - but the Winchesters were demon hunters . . . 

Dean Winchester retracted the helmet, shaking his head violently and blinking as if to clear his vision. His brother kept the helmet on but reached out a hand to his brother for reassurance.

"What?" Stone asked, because he had no clue what was happening.

Dean looked at him, blinked again, and said in a perfect Haley-Joel Osment impression, "I see dead people."

"Yeah," Sam gasped. "And not just people . . . everything that has ever died on this island." 

Dean nodded and said to Stone, "You're standing on a half-eaten stegosaurus."

Stone frowned. "Stegosaurus? _Here?_ "

"This wasn't always some little frozen shit-hole island, apparently," Dean remarked.

Stone was at a loss. "I don't know why you can see those things," he admitted, and the Winchesters took note that Stone obviously believed them.

It was then that Sam happened to glance in Buck's direction. "HOLY CRAP!" he gasped. Then nudged his brother roughly. "Dean, put your helmet back on."

Dean complied, took one look at Buck, and quickly pulled it off again, blinking his eyes rapidly. "I didn't see that. I didn't see that." He put the helmet back on. "Okay, I _did_ see that. What the holy living fuck . . ."

"What is it?" Stone asked, immediately concerned.

Nathan had stepped forward by this time. Buck was aware that the Winchesters were talking about him, but he just looked at Chris and shrugged his shoulders as Nathan approached the brothers.

"You can see him," Nathan said, somewhat nervously. "The _real_ him . . . "

Both Winchesters appeared to be temporarily unable to speak. 

"Yep, you see him," Nathan sighed.

Almost everyone else just looked confused, including Buck's six cohorts, who knew the truth about Buck, but had never seen it for themselves. Hell, Buck hadn't seen it for himself, at least not since he was too young to remember.

"Might as well let everyone else in on it," Nathan said, and then had to wave his hand in front of the Winchesters' helmets to make sure they were still actually alive.

"He's a dragon!" Dean gasped.

"You can see me?" Buck sounded happier than maybe he should have been. "What do I look like?"

"Uh. . . " Sam still couldn't talk,

So Dean continued. "You're kinda greenish-purplish-goldish, with gold wings and a gold tail. . . Oh shit, you have _wings and a tail_!"

"Not like you haven't seen that before," Castiel commented.

"Angels and demons, yeah," Dean said. "But he's a _dragon_ , Cas! He's. A. DRAGON!"

Buck laughed, and alarmingly, Sam noted, so did the dragon he was looking at.

Harry walked up to Buck, who still looked like a human to him. As he got close, he sensed it. "There's a spell . . . someone put a spell on you. Why would anyone do that?" 

Buck shrugged. He wished he knew.

"Back to work," Chris prodded. They had way too little time to get good. They could be dazzled by each other later.

They discovered the suits were relatively easy to control with the thrusters and thrust stabilizers at 1% - just enough to lift the wearer off the ground a few inches. 3% thrust was a bit more dramatic, resulting in the wearer hovering 10-15 feet in the air, depending on size and weight. Jake was about to explain the necessity for slowly becoming accustomed to the sensation of hovering before even attempting actual flight when both JD and Sherlock shot into the air with what proved to be less control than they had anticipated. They would have both slammed into the hangar ceiling if they hadn't collided with each other first. Peter, who was clinging to the rafters watching the show because he had nothing else to do, managed to sling a filament and catch JD by a one of his feet a split second before he hit the ground. Sherlock landed with an unpleasant >thud<

"That's gotta hurt," Deadpool remarked casually.

Both Watson and Nathan switched to diagnostic telemetry so they were getting information from the silver-grey suit. _"Multiple minor contusions. No fractures, no internal injuries. Vital signs within normal parameters. Subject status: level 9.6 out of 10."_

Stone unceremoniously pulled Sherlock off the ground, causing him to gasp with pain. "Multiple contusions!" the detective protested.

"MINOR contusions," Stone reminded. He then cut the filament holding JD suspended in midair so that he dropped to the floor with a distinct "oomph!"

"Hey, you aren't supposed to be able to cut that!" Peter said indignantly.

Stone hefted the oddly wavy blade he'd used. " _Taming Sari_ . . . enchanted dagger," he grinned. 

_"Can I see that?"_ Vin, Sam and Sherlock all asked at the same time.

"No, no, and definitely no," Stone answered. "Now, where were we?"


	10. The Untouchables

Larabee decided to take the training session outdoors, to avoid any future mishaps. High winds - sometimes exceeding 100 mph - were not uncommon on the island but it was calm that day. The sky was overcast, as it was roughly 360 days out of the year. It was cold, so those not wearing suits donned heavy parkas and wind-proof pants (which Larabee was reminded to refer to as 'trousers' after all the Brits laughed when he called them that - apparently, 'pants' meant something else entirely in that Other English).

"This is an island," Larabee began addressing his assembled 'iron men.' "Which means it is surrounded by water . . ."

"Dull," Sherlock muttered.

Larabee continued, "If you end up in the drink, the suits will keep you warm. They will keep you dry. They will keep you afloat. They will not keep you from being eaten, so, no thrashing around until we figure out some way to get to you."

"Eaten?" JD looked alarmed. "Sharks?"

"No one really knows what's in these waters," Jake Stone remarked. It was true - the Aleutian chain was a military secure zone. That meant no planes, no research vessels. Fishing trawlers were allowed, but they'd better be able to prove they were catching fish and not spying. Whales, sharks, and halibut that weighed upwards of 100 kilos had all been spotted, and the infamously tasty Alaskan King crabs were a meter or more across and their claws could cut off a finger.

"The thrusters will work in the water," Jake informed everyone, "but it might be difficult to control your trajectory. If you find yourself submerging, don't panic. There is a back-up supply of oxygen that will last you 7-9 minutes, depending on whether or not you hyperventilate. You can dive to a depth of 35 meters, but it's not recommended. If you are disoriented for any reason, trust the sensors - they will tell you if you are heading for the bottom instead of the surface. Any questions?"

"How high will these go?" Dean asked, activating the thrusters on his suit so that he lifted a few inches off the ground.

Jake answered, "They are capable of reaching sub-orbital altitudes, but there have been icing issues in the past. They have been corrected but still, should something fail, you don't really want to fall 100 kilometers."

"I do," JD laughed. Buck nudged him sharply.

John Watson looked at Sherlock. "Don't even think it," he said.

"Unfortunately, the learning curve is going to be trial and error. No one here has actually used these suits before," Larabee cautioned. "Stay focused, stay in contact with each other, and don't do anything stupid," he added, even though he knew 'stupid,' like beauty, was in the eye of the beholder. He also knew he'd have no problem using the suit perfectly the first time. That's just how things were with him. But he was the leader, and it would be his job to keep everyone else as safe as possible.

The suits all had telemetry components that would provide feedback on the status of whoever was wearing it - body temperature, heart rate, etc. These would be monitored by Nathan Jackson and John Watson. Chris would monitor the two doctors, as well as camera feedback from everyone. It was a lot of data to keep up with at once.

"Can he actually do that?" Watson asked Nathan.

"Yes."

"How?" Watson was pretty sure Larabee wasn't a genius like some of the others. Someone would have mentioned that.

Nathan's reply seemed evasive. "He just . . . can."

"Okay, get your butts in the air!" Larabee interrupted. "You don't have a lot of time to get good at this!"

One at a time, the suits were activated, first to lift off, then to hover as had already been practiced, then, one by one, they shot into the air in streaks of different colors.

"That actually looks rather amazing," Ron Weasley said wistfully.

"Yeah, we should have brought our brooms," Harry sighed.

"Dimensional gateway," Strange remarked.

"Huh?" Ron turned to him.

"Create one to wherever your brooms are, reach through, and grab them. It's as simple as that."

It took a bit of effort, because they were still perfecting the skill of creating gateways, but in short order, the three British wizards had their brooms. 

Ezra, who liked to be prepared for any contingency, had brought his broom with him. He returned to the hangar to retrieve it rather than waste magic on a gateway.

Ezra's broom was an _Aurora 2020_ with a gold crescent medallion which meant it was custom made. It was ebony and black sage and the most magically powerful broom available anywhere.

Ron and Harry gaped in admiration when they saw it. Draco Malfoy looked positively green. 

All four wizards noticed Stephen didn't have a broom. "It's not a problem," the sorcerer said. "Really not interested in falling or crashing into something. Been there. Done that. Not fun." He waved them off and joined Wade, Peter and the two angels, who probably could fly, too, but weren't.

Wade had Chris's laptop. Being told not to touch it meant nothing to the mercenary. He tapped the screen a few times until it displayed what Chris was seeing on his helmet screen, and they sat back to watch.

JD had quickly shot into the air, intent on going as high as possible until Buck grabbed one of his feet from below. "Slow it down, little brother. Enjoy the view!"

JD looked down, which was a mistake. "Holy crap!" He experienced a brief moment of vertigo before he was reassured by the steady thrum of the thrusters that he wasn't going to plummet back to earth. It did give him second thoughts about suborbital flight, though.

"Dean! Look at this!" Sam called out to his brother. 

On the laptop screen the ones on the ground could see what Sam was looking at. There, directly in front of his visor, a bald eagle hovered on the air currents, eyeing him suspiciously.

Dean joined him. "Oh . . . wow . . . that's . . . "

"Amazing," Sam finished. The bird did not look the least bit afraid of them. In fact, it looked rather aggressive and pissed off. Sam held his hand out, closed in a fist.

The eagle immediately clasped on, sinking its sharp talons deep. They did not penetrate the suit, but the pressure they exerted was impressive.

"That's going to leave a bruise," Dean commented, as the eagle settled, folding its wings. It seemed bewildered by the odd perch it had found, but its gaze was still predatory. "That thing would rip your head off if it could."

"I know," Sam laughed. "Awesome, right?"

Vin was not so lucky - a second eagle dived at him in mid-air, striking the side of his head and sending him spinning erratically. His first thought, though, was that the bird had been injured. As soon as he regained his bearings, he looked for it, only to see to his dismay that it was in free fall, its wings limp at its sides. "Aw, shit," he said softly.

"I got it!" came Harry's voice over the headsets. The wizard swooped down on his broom and caught the majestic bird before it hit the ground. Luckily, the eagle was only stunned, and it soon began to flap its huge wings. As Harry held out his arm as a perch, he was beset by a feeling of melancholy as he spoke soothingly to the creature. He thought of his owl, Hedwig, who had perished in a valiant, but futile, attempt to protect him from the Death Eaters so many years ago.

Vin came up alongside him. "He's fine," Harry told him. "Just had his feathers ruffled a bit." He raised his arm and the eagle soared free.

The eagles, though beautiful and exciting, were a problem. There were a lot of them - the island was a wildlife refuge - and they didn't want to share their airspace. The wizards on brooms were able to keep them at bay with magic and the flying skills acquired from their Quidditch days, but they ended up being good practice for the men in suits as they would have to deftly maneuver to avoid them.

It was going to be an interesting day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Deathly Hallows' SPOILER ALERT: I opted to use the film version of Hedwig's demise, because giving his life trying to protect Harry was better than just being zapped dead in his cage like he was in the book. :-(


	11. Waterworld

John Watson cursed openly when one of the eagles whacked him in the head, like it had Vin Tanner. In fact, it might have been the same stupid bird. "Sodding feathered prick!" He rubbed the side of his head. Despite the suit, the blow had smarted.

Sherlock quickly joined him. Somehow, he had inverted the thrusters on his suit so that he was hovering upside down. "John, are you injured?"

"No, I'm fine and that . . . " he motioned to Sherlock's upended form, "is a bit unnerving."

Sherlock righted himself. "This is fun," he said conspiratorially. They both giggled.

"Yeah. Yeah, it is," Watson agreed. "Not meant to be, though, I don't think," he sighed. "Just look at all this," he indicated the view of the island below them.

The view shouldn't have been impressive - Adak was little more than a rock covered in tundra grass, save for a small stand of pine trees that had been planted in the fifties and sixties by military personnel and had managed to survive the brutal winds and chilly climate. But it was home to several small groups of caribou, some of them plainly visible from above, as well as the eagle population. There were also feral cats descended from pets that had escaped or been abandoned decades before, who had evolved with peculiarly large, round eyes. Most of them were black, so were also easy to spot in the drab tundra grass as they stalked small birds and rodents. John was about to point one out when another of the island's natural features caught Sherlock's attention.

"John! Look!" he pointed to small lagoon. " _Otters!_ "

And he was off, diving towards the water.

"Bloody hell!" Watson cursed, and followed.

Meanwhile, Jake Stone had gone off somewhere on his own and was no longer visible from the ground. Larabee and those watching the laptop could tell from the feedback from his visor camera that he, too, was headed for the water.

Larabee was hoping the suits really did work when submerged, because they didn't have a boat. There were a couple of Zodiacs in the hangar, but they wouldn't be easy to get in the water and it would take them awhile to reach anyone. Then again, he did have wizards, so . . . maybe not a big issue.

Still, he wasn't entirely thrilled when three sets of feedback - Watson, Holmes and Stone - all turned to a view that was without question very . . . _wet_. He checked coordinates. Holmes and Watson were in Clam Lagoon. Stone was in alarmingly deeper water.

"Nathan, see if you can find Jake," he sighed. Holmes and Watson were probably fine - the lagoon wasn't deep and it was relatively nearby.

JD and Buck decided to help Nathan, especially since it looked like he'd gone into the water. JD wanted to try that.

The Winchesters were off on their own . . . somewhere. They were approaching the altitude of a commercial jet, but their bio signs looked good. The suits were able to extract and concentrate oxygen even from minimal atmosphere and they had functioned impressively so far. Most everyone had quickly gotten the hang of controlling them and they had pretty much kicked everyone up several notches on the invincibility scale. Larabee was pleased.

The wizards eventually grew bored of fending off the eagles and had returned to the ground and the hangar for more practice. Larabee set off to find Holmes and Watson. He still didn't trust either of them one hundred percent. He was pretty sure they were there due to the machinations of Mycroft Holmes, whom Larabee had met a couple of times and who had impressed him as perhaps having his own agenda. He also didn't trust MI6 any more than he trusted the CIA or KGB.

Watson's green suit was easy to spot, but it took some effort to locate Sherlock. The calm waters of the lagoon reflected the overcast sky, so his silver-grey suit was nicely camouflaged. Alarms went off in Larabee's head when he saw that the detective was floating on the surface, but since Watson, who was sitting on the rocky shore, did not seem unduly concerned, his unease was quickly put to rest.

He lowered himself to the ground using the thrusters. He'd mastered the suit completely.

"Hello," Watson said calmly, not looking up at him.

Sherlock ignored him completely. His attention was focused on a group of otters who were using rocks to break open clams. Actually, he was swimming _with_ them. One of them was draped casually across the chest plate of his suit.

"You know, those things bite," Larabee said to Watson. "They could have rabies."

"Too late," Watson said. "They've already tried to take a couple of chunks out of him. But . . . _Iron Man suits_ . . . " Watson flexed his green fingers and grinned.

Larabee waded into the water and grabbed Holmes by his left arm. His right arm was clutching the otter, who oddly didn't seem the least bit upset.

They emerged with icy water cascading off the suits although they were both perfectly warm and dry inside them.

"Fascinating creature," Watson observed. 

Larabee looked at him sideways. He wasn't at all sure if Watson meant the otter or Sherlock. He pried the fat, furry creature out of the detective's arms to put it back in the lagoon, which it obviously didn't appreciate because snapped and kicked at him.

At that moment, the surface of the water was broken by a colorful splash - orange, yellow, indigo and red.

Jake, Nathan, JD and Buck emerged literally covered in giant king crabs.

"Dinner!" Jake announced.

The crabs were succulent and delicious, so Larabee allowed the four men to take them back to the hangar. It also amused him to see them trying to control the suits without dropping the huge, tasty crustaceans.

He then gathered the group together and they ran through several drills, which involved lifting and hovering in tandem and flying in specific formations. It wasn't as though Larabee thought they were going to have to do any of that in a combat situation, but he wanted to see if the disparate group of men could work as a team.

He was pleased. They had all learned to use the suits efficiently. Despite previous evidence to the contrary, they were all able to focus and do what was expected of them. 

It didn't hurt that they all looked pretty cool, too.


	12. Field of Dreams

After Nathan made sure no one had a seafood allergy, they feasted on the crabs. Vin had found some fiddle ferns that Ezra had prepared with onion and bacon, and Jake had whipped up an amazing rice pilaf. Ron took care of dessert. It was too bad they were going to have to go save the galaxy, because otherwise they could have probably opened a killer restaurant.

If Nathan had a choice, everyone would have been getting some much needed sleep, but everyone seemed to find his own way to relax. Vin and Jake had found a chess set and were enjoying a game - which rather surprised Nathan because he didn't know Vin even played chess. He must have been fairly good, too, because the brilliant Jake Stone was not wiping the floor with him.

Ezra sat with the three Hogwarts Wizards as they played "sorting hat" - deciding what house their mundane/muggle counterparts would have been sorted into if they'd been wizards and gone to Hogwarts. Chris had been declared a Slytherin. JD a Ravenclaw. Vin and the Winchesters Gryffindors, Peter a Hufflepuff. Ezra's school, Horesefeathers, had its own sorting hat, but it had five guilds instead of four houses, so it was hard to compare the various assignments. Ezra had been Spider Guild, which seemed to more or less correspond to Slytherin, and he contemplated that Stephen Strange probably would have been sorted into that guild, also, a fact which bumped them both up a few notches in the eyes of Draco Malfoy.

The Winchesters and the angels were watching a DVD of some movie involving a lot of screeching tires and gunshots. 

Nathan and Watson were going over medical data obtained from the suits during the day to ensure no one had been unduly overstressed by using the sophisticated armor's various neural interfaces.

Peter and JD were being dazzled by Stephen Strange who claimed to know every Billboard Top 40 hit song since there was a Top 40. He also appeared to know every song ever nominated for an Academy Award as well as the movie it came from, every song from any Broadway musical of the past hundred years, and the theme song to every TV show, ever. 

Sherlock was sitting with them, and for some odd reason, didn't seem to have the first clue what any of it was about. He looked positively annoyed at Strange's talent, or maybe it was just the amount of attention he was drawing to his obviously impressive intellect.

Strange had already gotten some three dozen titles correct when JD selected a song on his personal playlist and he guessed it from a single note.

"Holy crap," JD exclaimed. "You're like a fricking computer."

"Yeah, like a super-genius," Peter said with open adoration.

Sherlock scoffed, "A super-genius who lacks the common sense not to look at his phone while exceeding the speed limit in an insubstantial car in the dark on a winding road so that he ends up comatose at the bottom of a cliff."

Strange didn't even look at him. He flicked his wrist like he was batting away an annoying insect, and a sparking red ball of _something_ flew from his fingertips squarely into Sherlock's chest, its momentum knocking him into the wall near the Winchesters.

Sherlock slid to the floor, both literally and figuratively stunned. 

The detective was tall, but didn't weigh much more than JD or Peter. It hadn't taken much to take him down. 

"DUDE!" Dean Winchester pointed indignantly at Strange. "That was totally _not cool_!"

Draco Malfoy apparently didn't agree. He was laughing.

Sam Winchester pulled Sherlock off the floor. "You okay, man?"

Sherlock glared at Strange. Usually, people just told him to piss off when he revealed The Truth about them. He certainly hadn't expected to be flung across the room by magic. He added Strange to his list of people he was against, then jerked free of Sam's grasp and walked away. 

"Obnoxious little twat," Strange muttered under his breath. 

"Don't do that again," Castiel warned the sorcerer as he approached him threateningly. Josiah silently echoed the statement by stepping up behind Castiel. Castiel inhabited the body of a devout, pious man who had offered it to the angel willingly. Josiah, on the other hand, had borrowed his human form from the leader of a not-so-nice biker gang, and he looked more than ready to back Castiel up. He slammed a fist into the palm of his other hand in a manner that was clearly meant as a threat.

Strange was without remorse. That accident had cost him dearly, and he didn't need a painful reminder that it was his fault. 

No one was sure if angels were more or less powerful than sorcerers. Ezra knew opportunity when he saw it, though, and offered to take bets from his fellow wizards. Their money was all on Strange, so Ezra bet on the angels.

"Nobody cared when he dropped a fucking plane on _me_ ," Deadpool grumbled from a corner where he was sitting alone.

"Actually, it was Malfoy who did that . . ." Ron began, until Draco nudged him roughly. 

Chris was grateful that it wasn't possible for him to get a headache, because if it was, this bunch of oddities Travis had foisted on him would have had him experiencing a raging migraine by now. He intervened.

"Consider this a _talk_ ," he said, implying that it was, in fact, a warning. "No more name-calling, no more bullying, no more magic being cast at other members of the team." He glared at Strange who was really the only one guilty of that. "You're _all_ valuable assets, but if anyone wants to leave, they are free to go whenever they want. If anyone gets hurt, however, whoever is responsible is gone no matter what. Is that not clear to anyone?"

No one spoke up, so Larabee assumed they'd all got the message.

Watson went off to look for Sherlock - maybe to get him to apologize to Stephen, although Larabee sincerely doubted that. Nathan drew the two angels away and calm was restored.

An hour or so later, after a brief consultation with each other, Nathan, Josiah and Castiel spread out to three points around where the team members who were still awake were gathered. Peter, JD, and Ron had gone to bed and were already asleep. Wade, Draco, Sherlock and Sam insisted they weren't tired, even though that had to be false, and they had started a game of Trivial Pursuit that wasn't likely to end any time soon. Each of them seemed to be especially good at a particular category, while all of them sucked at Sports and they were all surprisingly good at Geography.

Vin and Jake were still playing the same game of chess they had been at for a couple of hours, with Stephen for a silent audience.

Ezra was teaching Harry poker, with some help from Dean and Buck. No magic allowed.

John had found a spy novel but looked like he was falling asleep reading it.

When Nathan and the two angels were at equal distances from each other, forming a triangle, they began performing a series of arm and hand movements. 

Curious, Watson looked up from his book. After a few seconds, he approached Nathan, but didn't say anything as his fellow doctor appeared to be concentrating. To his surprise, Nathan softly said, "You're wondering what we're doing."

Watson nodded.

"In complex terminology," Nathan explained, "we are manipulating the immediate environment so that ambient light and sound and the surrounding electromagnetic aura fall into the parameters of natural sleep."

"How . . ." Watson began, but wasn't even sure what to ask.

"In simplified terms," Nathan smiled, "we are casting a sleep spell. Even the wizards won't be immune." He turned to Watson. "I suggest you get to your bunk, Doctor."

Watson frowned instead. "So, you aren't a medical doctor . . . "

"Oh, I have an M.D.," Nathan replied with a smile. "But I'm also a shaman."

Watson frowned. "A witch doctor?"

"Please, John," Nathan laughed, "political correctness."

John very suddenly felt completely, utterly relaxed. He looked at where Sherlock had been playing the board game. Draco and Sam were slumped in their chairs. Sherlock's head was resting on the game board with Wade's head was resting on his.

"And don't worry," Nathan added. "We knew about Wade's stash . . . it's been rendered inert, so you needn't worry about your friend and certain . . . temptations."

It hadn't even occurred to John that Sherlock would have access to any illegal substances here, of all places, but somehow, at that moment, he just wasn't able to access concern, or shock, or even mild interest. He yawned and headed for his bunk.

"Wasn't going to do it, anyway," Sherlock mumbled, apparently not fully asleep yet and either unaware or not bothered that Wade was using his head for a pillow.

"Yes you were," Wade muttered, snuggling into Sherlock's curls before going completely limp. 

In short order, everyone but Chris fell under the spell. "You too," Nathan told him.

Their leader glared at him. "You know I don't need . . ." 

Nathan placed a gentle hand on a specific spot behind Larabee's left ear and he dropped sedately into Nathan's arms.

Nathan placed him in his bunk and then crawled into his own, satisfied with the calming aura that filled the large room. Larabee's team would sleep deeply and well. The spell that had been cast had caused Nathan to become a living dream catcher - channeling the darkest thoughts and memories of those surrounding him into his own mind where he locked them harmlessly away. There would be no nightmares of Voldemort, Dormammu, Purgatory, Afghanistan, torture, fires, or lost parents. As he sensed each mind - some of them remarkably complex - shut peacefully down, the shaman finally closed his own eyes.

Castiel and Josiah didn't need to sleep, so after making sure everyone was comfortable in a bunk they settled in to keep vigil. Larabee's team literally had guardian angels watching over them through the night.


	13. The Bodyguards

There was no reveille - this wasn't the military, exactly - but the sleep spell wore off after 8 hours and several of the team awoke with varying degrees of alarm at finding themselves in bunks they didn't remember getting into.

"The hell . . . " Vin Tanner sat up quickly, tossing off the heated blanket that had been placed over him and immediately regretting it. The dormitory was cavernous with a high ceiling and carved out of rock - it was _cold_. "How did I get here?"

"I would be willing to wager that thaumaturgical subterfuge was somehow involved," Ezra said. He pushed his blanket aside and then immediately re-covered himself. "It's freezing in here."

"The air temperature is approximately 12.5 Celsius, which is hardly freezing," Sherlock muttered. He was completely covered, including his head.

"Sounds freezing to me," Buck laughed, because like most Americans, he had no clue what Celsius anything was. He was already out of his bunk. Cold didn't really bother him. He frowned. "How do you even know that, anyway?" he asked Sherlock.

"Don't bother me, I'm sleeping," Sherlock mumbled.

"That's new," John Watson remarked, crawling out of the bunk below Sherlock with a shiver. There was a bench at the foot of the bed, on which he discovered two neatly folded sets of CUs - what the Americans called BDUs. Military clothing, at any rate. There were pants, vests and socks, too. He checked the sizes. Medium-Short, Small-Tall. Well, he knew which one _wasn't_ his. Others were finding similar clothing at their bunks, also. Presumably, they were meant to put them on. He grabbed his set, wondering if Sherlock was actually going to wear them - the detective had once gone to Buckingham Palace in nothing but a bed sheet.

Stephen Strange sat up and looked around resentfully. "I don't appreciate being put to bed like a toddler," he said to no one in particular, because those responsible - Nathan, Josiah and Castiel - were not actually there.

"I do," Wade sighed, snuggling into his blanket. "So comfy."

Harry looked around for his glasses, and discovered a pair neatly tucked under his pillow, except they weren't his glasses. The frames were soft and flexible and there were no hinged temple pieces, just a soft, adjustable band that went completely around his head. He tried them on. The prescription was perfect, as was the fit, and he assumed he was meant to wear them, so he did. His wand was under the pillow, also. He slipped it out and cast a charm that instantly heated the air in the room to a comfortable level.

"I had the oddest dream," Dean Winchester commented.

"I don't doubt that," Jake Stone replied. "You and your brother have seen some weird shit."

"No, not that kind of weird . . . I was . . . " he rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully. "Building a vegetable garden out of Legos."

"Lego," Sherlock corrected. "No 's'."

"Wrong," JD commented. "It's Legos."

"No, it's not."

"Is."

"Not, and you're an idiot."

Peter slung a web strand across the room and neatly snagged Sherlock's blanket, ripping it off.

"You're a bloody little wanker, Parker, you know that?" Sherlock huffed and crawled from his bunk.

"Enough labeling for now, Sherlock," Watson said, pushing Sherlock's pile of clothing at him.

"So, Lego vegetables?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, weird, huh?"

"I dreamed I was riding dolphins," Sam shrugged. "With saddles."

It turned out that those who were willing to share their dreams had similarly fanciful experiences. 

Strange didn't remember what he'd dreamed about, only that for the first time in a long time, the disembodied, demonic face of Dormammu hadn't shown up at any point.

"I dreamed I was getting high with Shellshock," Wade scoffed, but it was the truth.

"You do know his name is _Sherlock_ , right?" Draco commented, then shook his head to clear it. "That was a powerful spell."

Ron agreed. "And they aren't even wizards." He was always impressed when muggles used magic, although, he supposed Castiel and Josiah couldn't really be considered muggles.

Larabee walked in, having apparently been awakened before the others. He was fully dressed in the black outfit that had been left for the rest of them. There was a Stargate Command patch on the right sleeve of his shirt.

"Have we been conscripted?" Watson asked, pointing to the patch.

Larabee didn't hedge. "Yes. You are now Stargate Command - all of you. So get your butts in gear and be ready for a briefing with Major O'Neill in an hour."

Most of them headed to the showers before getting dressed. As had happened the night before, everything was neatly laid out. Towels, soap, razors, combs, toothbrushes.

As Vin was towel drying his long hair, he caught a brief flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned quickly, but nothing was there. Then he looked down at the sink he was standing in front of and there was a small tube of what turned out to be hair product intended to 'activate curls and prevent frizzing.' He felt kind of stupid using it, but since it was there . . .

Sherlock was standing next to him, a towel around his waist, dragging a comb through his thick black hair. "Sherl . . . check it out. . ." He pointed to a similar tube at Sherlock's sink. The detective studied it for a moment, shrugged, and then squeezed out a portion that he worked into his own curly hair.

"You can come out, whoever you are," Vin said. "I'm an elf, too. I know you're there."

"Who are you talking to?" Sherlock looked around.

"The house elf hiding in that little nook over there," Vin pointed at an almost invisible indentation in the rock wall.

Ron, who was on the other side of Vin, abruptly stopped brushing his teeth to look, too. "We should have guessed as much," he indicated the orderly condition of the lavatory. "Who else would have been setting out all of this stuff, and the clothes, too?"

A small figure emerged from the shadows. Sherlock looked surprised. He'd never seen a house elf. Vin had only heard of them. Ron had met enough of them to know this one was different. He was fully clothed for one thing, in a tiny, but complete Stargate Command uniform, with a rank insignia on one sleeve. He bowed, but only slightly. He held his head high and looked them in the eye. He didn't wait for them to ask his name. He introduced himself.

"I am Namecka. I am a free elf. I have no master. I serve Stargate Command with pride, and of my own free will."

John Watson and Wade Wilson emerged from the showers at that point and stopped in their tracks. "Oh . . . hello . . . What is this?" Watson asked. He really didn't know.

"Meet Namecka, our house elf," Ron said.

Watson inspected the tiny but dignified creature, noticing the insignia on his uniform. "That would be Corporal Namecka, I presume?"

"Yes, Dr. Watson," Namecka replied.

Watson held out his hand. "Captain John Watson. Fifth Northumberland Fusilliers, British Army."

Namecka snapped to attention and saluted, before returning the handshake.

"Kinda looks like the love child of Yoda and Tyrion Lannister," Wade commented, and when the others gave him a dirty look, he added, "Both of whom are awesome, by the way."

The little elf was very bold by house elf standards, but he still appeared ill-at-ease being the center of attention. "Namecka must get about his duties now," he excused himself and literally just disappeared.

"Whoa . . . That's messed up!" Wade exclaimed, then asked Vin, "Can you do that? Poof yourself away like that?"

"Uh . . . no," Vin answered. "At least, I don't think so."

"Common elves aren't as magical as house elves," Ron said. "Which is kind of ironic when you think about it," he added.

Buck poked his head in the doorway. "Main room. 10 minutes." He scanned the naked men. "Dressed, preferably."

>>>>>>>

"I just want to go over one thing before Major O'Neill arrives," Larabee began. "but first I want to emphasize that our wizards are the heart of this operation. Without the magic, everything goes down the shithole. I hope that is clear to everyone."

No one moved or spoke, so he continued. "Buck will be second in command. The rest of you will be paired up. Dr. Jackson and Dr. Watson, you're the medical team. I want you two together, alone."

Watson looked toward Sherlock with mild trepidation, but despite his quirks and oddities, Sherlock was entirely capable of taking care of himself. He moved alongside Nathan.

Larabee went on, "The rest of you will have a partner, and the pair of you will be assigned a wizard who you will protect at all costs. . . "

" _Whom_ ," Sherlock had to point out. "Not _who_."

Larabee glared as only he could, but otherwise ignored the remark. "Decide now _whom_ you want to partner with, and I'll make the wizard assignments."

The ten non-wizards began studying each other.

There was no question that the Winchesters were a team, so they spoke up first. "You take Ron Weasley," Larabee told them.

Buck was somewhat disgruntled to discover that JD had teamed up with Peter Parker without giving him a so much as a backward glance.

"Parker, Dunne, you're with Stephen."

"It's _Doctor Strange_ ," the sorcerer corrected. "And they're _children_ ," he said with a note of alarm.

"I don't care," Larabee brushed him off.

Jake Stone and Vin decided they'd be partners. No surprise there. They almost looked and sounded like brothers. "Stone, Tanner - you're with Harry."

Josiah and Castiel, the two angels, had paired off. "Ezra," Chris told them.

Draco Malfoy scowled openly as Deadpool threw an arm around Sherlock and said, "We're the kids who didn't get picked for dodgeball."

Sherlock frowned. "What?"

"They're lunatics!" Malfoy protested. " _Both_ of them!"

"High-functioning sociopath," Sherlock corrected.

"What he said," Deadpool added.

"Not listening," Larabee snorted. "We're done here. Go get some breakfast."


	14. Dragonfly

Chris did a double-take when he met Jack O'Neill. As a 10-year-old version of himself, Chris had known Jack's late son, Charlie. Jack O'Neill had retired as a Brigadier General. He was no longer a young man. But the Jack O'Neil before him appeared to be in his early 30s, and wore the insignia of a Major. It was Jack O'Neill 2.0 - the Asgard-created clone that had been allowed to live.

He'd flown the puddle jumper that brought two SGC scientists, Rodney McKay and Colonel Samantha Carter. It would be McKay who would conduct the actual briefing and he looked annoyed to be there. He set up his equipment without acknowledging anyone, even though most of Larabee's team watched attentively as he flicked through diagrams and schematics and menus on his laptop projector in preparation.

The puddle jumper they had arrived in was once again the focus of intense interest. The wizards were perplexed by whatever magic it was that enabled it to fly. The tech-mages gleaned no useful information from its outer hull, and the guys with the sky-high IQs couldn't even guess how the thing worked. O'Neill had taken the precaution of closing the hatch so that no one could get in and mess around with it. Larabee smiled at the touchpad security lock. O'Neill clearly under-estimated his team.

While McKay fiddled with his various devices, Colonel Carter approached the team members inspecting the puddle jumper. She was quite comfortable being the only female there. First of all, she outranked all of them, and secondly, the view was quite to her liking. Chris Larabee's OPTIC team and its additions were not only skilled and brilliant, not one of them was hard on the eyes. 

"Let me tell you a little bit about this craft," she began. "It can operate with one or two pilots - two is ideal. There are 4 seats in the forward cockpit and 16 in the aft section, so it's designed to carry 20 adult humans total, although in extreme situations you can cram three times that number inside."

"Are we going to get to ride in one?" JD asked hopefully.

"Sadly, probably not. The debarkation point for most battle units will be our current fleet of twelve Deep Space Carrier battlecruisers . . ."

"Cool," Dean commented.

Carter smiled. "Yeah, they are, actually." She continued, "Puddle jumpers are ideal, of course, but there are simply not enough pilots."

"Can't you train some?" Buck asked.

"Unfortunately, they are controlled via a neural interface, which most humans are unable to accomplish, yours truly included. A specific gene is required, and only a fraction of 1 percent of the human population carry it."

"Can we see inside?" Sam asked.

"Maybe later . . . I think Dr. McKay is ready for us?" She glanced at the other scientist.

"Yes, yes, whenever," he muttered distractedly.

The team gathered round his display console. On it was a picture of a large ring.

"This is a stargate," McKay intoned as if he were speaking to seven-year-olds. "It's 22 feet - 6.7 meters - In diameter with a thickness of 88 cm. It weighs 32 tons. It creates wormholes that allow travel from one stargate to another."

He flipped to a new image consisting of 6 symbols. "A stargate has 38 symbols of which these are the most important as far as you are concerned. You will memorize these symbols because this is the gate address for Earth."

Another screen popped up. "This is a DHD. It controls the gate in most places. To use it, you touch the symbols for the gate address you want to get to, which in the case of all of you will be Earth and only Earth. Random dialing of gate addresses is not encouraged. The gates were built millions of years ago. Gates have been found underwater. Gates have been found in space. Gates have been found on planets that no longer sustain human life. If you dial one of them and go through, you will die, probably slowly and gruesomely."

He flipped to another image, that of a tall thin being with long white hair and what looked like extra nostrils in its cheeks. "This is a wraith. It will kill you. That's what wraiths do. Our objective is to destroy as many of them as possible."

"Are you talking about eradicating a sentient species?" Nathan asked. "Because I'm not totally okay with that."

"A sentient species that _feeds on humans_ ," McKay emphasized. "We don't have the luxury of armchair philosophy when we are the first item on the menu. They go, or we do, and I prefer it's them."

"If you don't chose the lesser of two evils, you end up with the greater," Sam Winchester said, somewhat sadly. He knew that to be true.

McKay went on to explain in gory detail how wraiths fed, concluding that, "Some humans survive the process, but they don't live long. The cellular degeneration that occurs is the equivalent of aging 8 or 9 decades in a few seconds."

"Nothing can cure it?" Watson asked.

"There has been one incident where a wraith was able to reverse the process, but don't count on any of them having the motivation to do so. Human doctors cannot undo it. _However_ ," he paused for emphasis and looked at the assembled group, "Magic spells have never been tried. Hopefully, it won't come to that, but if it does, the wizards are welcome to give it a go."

At this point, Larabee once again offered the option to back out. No one took it. "Looks like you still have all of my team," he told Carter.

"Well, yes, lovely," McKay interjected, dismissing the comment. "Are there any questions?"

"How does that gate work?" Jake asked. He'd seen so many strange artifacts as a Librarian, but never anything like a stargate.

"It's composed of Naquadah, which is a superheavy metal that does not naturally occur in this solar system. It has the spectacular advantage of being a superconductor at 20-degrees Centigrade . . . "

"That's not possible," JD commented.

"Thank you _Albert Einstein_ , but you're wrong," McKay scoffed. "It is capable of generating enough energy to create a stable wormhole - a conduit through subspace - enabling travel between distant points - and I am talking light years - in seconds."

"There's no such element as Naquadah," Sherlock observed.

"Keywords," McKay snorted, "Not in _this_ solar system."

The detective - who was in fact a graduate chemist - wasn't about to let it go. "What's the atomic number?"

"125 . . . "

"The periodic table doesn't go that high. An element with a number that high would be aggressively unstable. It would . . .

"Once again," McKay said with mock patience, "Keywords. _Not. In. This. Solar. System._ Do try to keep up, whatever your name is . . . " He turned to Carter. "Why do they not have name tags? They should have name tags. . ."

John Watson snorted softly. Sherlock actually looked mortally offended at being dismissed by McKay, even though he often said the exact same thing to . . . well . . . everyone.

"Bottom line - they work," Carter attempted to diffuse the situation. "Quite well, in fact."

Sherlock turned and walked away in a huff. He paused just long enough to grab JD and pull him away from the others.

JD thought about protesting, but he was pretty sure he knew what Sherlock had in mind as the two of them headed for the puddle jumper. Peter, who was on the ceiling, skittered over to the craft and dropped down next to them, unobserved.

John frowned watching the three of them. Most of the group had their back to the puddle jumper, a fact Sherlock was taking advantage of. He could see them clearly, however and he didn't need instinct to tell him they were going to open its keypad lock the same way they'd opened the crate with the P-90s.

Sherlock had the most brilliant mind he'd ever seen, but he often lacked a normally expected level of judgment. He _got into_ everything, and he could not be counted on to play the role of the adult in this scenario. John decided he'd better follow them.

It took 47 seconds to breach the lock and slip inside the strange ship. Well, maybe not so strange. It had seats like an airplane and looked a lot like a bus. It was rather a disappointment.

The cockpit was a revelation, though. The controls had no discernable labels, and were simply an array of levers and buttons and other protrusions for which there was no name.

Sherlock and JD sat down in the pilot seats, and as John had anticipated, immediately began to fuss with the cockpit display.

"What is this stuff even made of?" JD asked, poking at a triangular button that failed to produce any results.

"Odd substance," Sherlock commented, leaning so close to have a look that his nose almost touched the controls. "Transparent, but it doesn't appear to possess the properties of glass. . . "

"Plastic?" JD asked. 

Sherlock huffed. "I would hardly think anything so simplistic. Some type of artificial crystalline matrix perhaps . . ." It looked to John like the detective was looking for clues. He wondered what he could deduce about the alien race that had built the ship.

"Hard to believe this thing is a million years old," Peter remarked, tapping one of the bulkheads. "I'm not sure I'd trust it to fly." He spotted a panel with several transparent projections that were stacked like plates in a dishwasher. "I wonder what these do?" He pulled one out.

Sherlock took it from him and examined it. John could see the frustration building. He was getting nothing from the ship. No clues, no data.

"Can I help you . .. . . gentlemen?" the voice of Jack O'Neill boomed from out of nowhere. Or rather, from the now reopened rear hatch. Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed the . . . whatever it was . . . from Sherlock and put it back in its slot.

"They meant no harm," Watson tried to explain. "They can't help but be curious." He was curious himself. He ran his fingers lightly over the buttons on the cockpit console

"Hmmph," O'Neill grunted. "That doesn't always turn out well, so I would suggest . . ."

Suddenly, everything in the cockpit came to life. Buttons lit up, Levers re-positioned themselves, and a holographic data screen hovered in the air in front of them.

"Oh . . . well . . . shit . . . " O'Neill said, although he didn't seem angry. Instead, he moved JD out of the chair he was sitting in and sat John down in it. "Go ahead . … touch stuff," he told him.

John was confused by the request, but did as he was told. The puddle jumper began to hum and vibrate. Almost imperceptibly, but it was there.

"Don't move!" O'Neill told John who only looked at the others who were as confused as he was.

O'Neill returned a few seconds later with Colonel Carter and Chris Larabee.

Chris knew immediately what was happening. 

John Watson, perhaps the only one in his group that was one hundred percent unadulterated, unmodified, reasonably unremarkable, un-DNA-fucked-with human, had the ATA gene.

"Looks like you've got yourself a pilot," Carter grinned.

John frowned. "Say again?"


	15. Dances With Wolves

O'Neill took off with Watson in the puddle jumper, claiming that it would only take a couple of hours to teach the doctor to fly it. Watson had misgivings. He wasn't a pilot or an astronaut and had never had any real desire to be either. On the other hand, he rather fancied the fact that Sherlock seemed a bit envious as the puddle jumper responded easily to his 'commands' - delivered via the neural interface so that all he had to do was 'think' them. That was immensely satisfying, at least until O'Neill made Sherlock, JD and Peter get out of the craft. They did have other things to do. As part of the lesson, they flew Dr. McKay and Colonel Carter back to Stargate Command. (The trip took minutes.)

Meanwhile, Larabee had devised an exercise with the P-90s. The puddle jumper had dropped a red flag at the summit of Mt. Moffett, a gloriously barren mountain devoid of vegetation but nicely coated in slippery mud, loose gravel the size of bowling balls, and ice. It had craggy areas that afforded some cover, if one could get to them, which one usually could not without sliding downhill a meter for every two meters of uphill progress. 

The goal was for one - and only one - of the wizards to make it to the flag, while preventing the other four from doing so. It was not exactly a fair contest. Ezra had two angels as body guards. They were capable of working their own spells and charms. Ron Weasley had the Winchesters who knew things that most humans didn't even if it wasn't exactly magic. Stephen Strange felt he was at a disadvantage with the two youngest members of the unit, despite both of them having unusual powers. Harry was perhaps the most powerful wizard there, and he had the advantage of having a weapons-mage and a genius on his side. Draco, Holmes and Deadpool were loose cannons. Larabee wasn't expecting much from them and would be surprised if they were even able to work as a team.

The P-90s did not have live ammo. Carter had adapted them to shoot pellets similar to paint balls. With luck, and the Stark armor, no one would get hurt, but it would get messy. And possibly mean. There was only one rule, that being that the wizards could not use magic to capture the flag. There was the added drama of not actually being able to see the summit, as it was a typical overcast day on the island. GPS coordinates would have to do.

Larabee positioned each team in a discreet location where they could not be seen by the others. He fired off a signal flare to let everyone know the game was on.

The wizards were all in good shape, but the climb took its toll. The only one who didn't slip down the slope repeatedly was Stephen Strange, because he was secured by Peter Parker with a web strand. Peter stuck to the slippery mud/ice/gravel the way he did to everything else, and somehow managed to change the slippery surface so that JD simply followed in their footsteps.

Harry was not at a disadvantage with his non-enhanced companions, because Vin was a dead shot and was soon picking off the competition the instant anyone appeared in his line of fire. In short order, he managed to dispatch Ron and the Winchesters, taking them out of the contest despite Dean's vociferous protest and somewhat aggressive vow to do something with Vin's P-90 that was likely not physically possible.

The angels moved silently, unhindered by the physical properties of the mountain, but Ezra lost his footing and slid indecoriously on his ass for 7-8 meters before JD took him out with a clean shot. When Josiah and Castiel tried to rush to his side, Peter took them out, too. Josiah threatened to rain down hellfire upon both youths and Stephen, too, but it didn't matter in the end because they moved into Vin's line of fire and three shots in rapid sequence saw the three of them hanging their paint-splattered heads in defeat.

In the end, it was Harry and Draco who had just meters to go before reaching the summit. Harry sensed more than saw his opponent - he was coming up from the opposite side, out of the range of Tanner's weapon. Jake spotted him first, and fired off a few rounds that were very close, but not close enough.

In no time, Draco and Harry were face-to-face, both within arms' reach of the flag. Harry noted that Draco's 'bodyguards' were nowhere in sight, which didn't surprise anyone. He held up a hand to call Vin and Jake off, deciding to win the contest on his own. His bad, as it turned out . . . .

The two wizards, former foes, found themselves standing opposite each other, waiting for the other to make a move to grab the flag. Or at least, Harry was waiting. Draco seemed fairly nonchalant about the whole deal, which tipped Harry off that maybe all was not as it seemed. He unfortunately came to this conclusion a fraction of a second too late. 

Ice and gravel seemed to explode from the surface of the slope and an instant later, there were blurs of red and cloud-grey as Deadpool and Sherlock erupted from beneath the soil like a couple of demented earthworms. Deadpool took Vin and Jake down with a single, seemingly impossible shot that left both of their skulls streaked with paint.

Sherlock turned his un-helmeted face to Harry, grinned demonically, then shot him squarely in the chest.

Deadpool gave a whoop of joy as Draco picked up the flag, and held his hand up to Sherlock for a high-five. When he received a scornful look in return, he lifted Sherlock's hand in the air and smacked his palm.

"Fucking cheaters," Vin mumbled, scraping paint off his forehead.

"It's not possible to cheat when there are no rules to break," Sherlock observed calmly.

"Yeah, we kicked your ass," Deadpool laughed.

Vin was not amused. Neither was Harry who was chagrined at having underestimated Malfoy's deviousness. He'd known the other wizard since they were 11 - he should have known better than to trust him by now.

Larabee appeared behind Malfoy and took the flag. "Good job," he told no one in particular.

The puddle jumper came through the clouds - which were now below everyone - and landed with a gentle thud. The hatch opened and O'Neill called for everyone to come inside. The others had been picked up off the mountain slope and were already inside, scraping off paint. 

John Watson sat comfortably in the pilot's seat. Chris nodded towards him with approval.

"He's a natural," O'Neill stated. "He's almost as good as John Sheppard, and he's the best I've ever seen."

_"The Force is strong in this one . . . ,"_ Deadpool intoned dramatically.

"Yes," Watson grinned happily. "it is, rather."

"No need to develop an overinflated ego over it," Sherlock grumbled.

"I'm going to give everyone a chance at the controls," O'Neill told Larabee. "John may not be the only one with the ATA gene."

But, alas, he was.

>>>>>>>

If it had been up to Larabee, he would have had them repeat the flag exercise, but the leader was forced to recognize that perhaps his human cohorts did not have the physical stamina or motivation (especially that) to challenge the slippery slopes of Mt. Moffett a second time.

He settled for target range practice with the P-90s which went surprisingly well now that nearly everyone had been 'shot' and realized they could not take their skill or their weapons for granted. Not a single one of the 10 bodyguards missed the target even once. By the end of practice almost everyone was scoring bullseyes at least 4 out of 5 attempts. The smell of burning paper and gunpowder filled the air.

Lunch had been overlooked so dinner was greeted eagerly, even though no one was really sure where it had come from. It just sort of happened that once they returned to the main area of the hangar, food had been set out buffet style. 

Nathan had the wizards certify that it was actually food, and not magic, before he let everyone have at it, although he did not entirely approve of everyone's choices. Dean Winchester and Sherlock Holmes apparently were content to subsist on pie and French fries (or chips as the Brits called them) respectively, and Stephen Strange, Sam Winchester and John Watson were the only ones who gave the salad more than a perfunctory acknowledgment. But in the end, Nathan concluded that the meal was probably the work of the house elf, Namecka, and if so, each offering had been imbued with adequate nutrients no matter what form it took.

As they relaxed after eating, Vin pulled out a harmonica and began to play it. He was rather bad at it at first, until Ezra flicked his wand and incanted, " _prodigio musicarum_." Suddenly, there was actually a melody and it sounded quite nice.

"I never heard of that spell," Harry observed.

Ezra shrugged. "It has been passed down in my family for generations. It can come in quite handy at times. It's not permanent, unfortunately." The Southern wizard had endured more than his share of Vin's squealing harmonica. He often used the spell in self-defense.

"Don't suppose anyone can conjure me a guitar?" Jake Stone asked.

Ezra was happy to oblige. It turned out Jake didn't need a spell. He was actually quite good with the instrument. He and Vin treated the group to a rousing rendition of "Dueling Banjos" although it was more appropriately 'dueling guitar and harmonica.'

John Watson watched Sherlock watch the two musicians. He knew the detective was an accomplished violinist, and he seemed to want to join in - or show off. The latter was actually more likely. However, he'd never heard Sherlock play anything but classical music and a few Christmas carols, not counting the times he just battered the strings with his bow to make annoying sounds. Ironically, Stephen Strange seemed to know what Sherlock was thinking. He casually flicked his hands and suddenly there was a tiny dimensional portal that John could see opened into 221B Baker Street. Sherlock's violin was in easy reach and soon thereafter in his hands. John hoped this would end well, but he had his doubts.

Sherlock eyed Vin and Jake, not a bit intimidated. "So, 'Gypsies in the Palace'?"

Several in the group - including all of Larabee's Seven, voiced eager agreement, even though John had never heard of the piece.

Moments later, he sat with his mouth open as an unmistakably "Country" tune poured forth from the unquestionably expensive violin. Sherlock was _fiddling_! And he was damn good at it.

It turned out that several of the group could sing and many of those who couldn't knew line dancing.

When the mission was over, assuming they survived, maybe the group had a future in Nashville.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems like sort of a tradition to portray Sherlock's parents and posh, heartless assholes, but that's not really BBC canon. They live in a regular house where things get lost in the sofa cushions and they go to Oklahoma on holiday to learn line dancing. So not far-fetched that Sherlock has likely been exposed to country music.


	16. 3,000 Miles to Stargate Command

After another night of blissfull charm-induced sleep, Larabee informed the group that training was officially over. They would be heading out later in the morning. 

The paint had been removed from the Stark armor - no doubt by Namecka, because no one else had done it. Uniforms had been laid out (and there were now name tags on them), rucksacks had been packed, P-90s cleaned. Any additional instructions would be given at Stargate Command headquarters. John had already returned Major O'Neill to the Cheyenne Mountain complex and had accomplished his first solo puddle jumper flight, finding his way back to the hangar in time for breakfast, which this time included beans on toast and grilled tomatoes, which the Americans found somewhat shocking. Nobody in America ate tomatoes for breakfast unless they were chopped up in salsa.

There was also something called black pudding, which Peter and JD decided to try because it looked a lot like the chocolate munchkins from Dunkin' Donuts. It didn't taste bad, but it definitely wasn't chocolate.

"You know what that is, don't you?" Deadpool felt the need to inform them. "It's oatmeal and lamb's blood."

JD spit his out. Peter had already swallowed his mouthful. "Gross!"

"Just saying . . . " Deadpool shrugged and walked away.

Vin walked by with several pieces of it on his plate. The youngsters decided not to tell him what they knew, because he deserved it for shooting them the day before. Well, maybe they'd wait until he ate it, then tell him.

When the meal was done, Larabee called them all together for one final meeting.

"We're going to embark from Stargate Command. I don't know how long we'll be there, could be weeks, could be days, could be hours. It depends on when these 'wraiths' decide to show their asses in this solar system. We'll be one of nine combat units assigned to a Prometheus class battle cruiser, the _USS Elizabeth Weir_ . . . "

"Who are the other eight?" Sherlock interrupted.

Larabee frowned briefly, but then figured it might be something the others might want to know. "I have been told there will be Dora Milaje warriors from Wakanda, a team of Navy SEALs and possibly Templars. I don't know who else, but I suspect they will all be formidable. Stay together. We're a team. Don't embarrass me." The last was spoken as a threat, not a request.

They gathered their belongings and filed into the puddle jumper. Nathan took one of the rear cockpit seats behind Watson. Larabee was in the other. Watson frowned. He had expected Larabee to take the co-pilot seat with Wilmington behind him, but at the last second before the hatch closed, Namecka materialized there. The seat - and the control panel on his side - immediately adjusted to accommodate the house elf's smaller body.

Watson looked at Larabee questioningly. "They all have the ATA gene," Larabee explained. "House elves are members of an ancient race - so very old that it's entirely possible that the Lanteans got the ATA gene from _them_ , not the other way around."

"Well, I'll be damned," Watson muttered, then turned to Namecka. "So, co-pilot, eh?"

"If Namecka wishes this machine to fly, it will fly," the house elf stated with confidence.

Watson smiled then turned around to make sure everyone was in place. He wasn't surprised to see that his friend Sherlock wasn't sitting in his seat, but rather was perched on it like a gangly gargoyle. "Arse in the seat, feet on the floor, Sherlock," he called back. Peter Parker had attached himself to the ceiling. "You, too, Parker."

"Bossy git," Sherlock mumbled. 

Watson smiled to himself. It seemed to actually bother his brilliant friend that there was something he could do that the detective could not. _None_ of them could, which he had to admit was immensely satisfying. Somewhat smugly, he placed his hands on the control panel, and merely thought what he wanted the puddle jumper to do. 

And it did.

>>>>>>>

Ezra had actually been inside the Cheyenne Mountain complex, once. It was just under 13 kilometers from Horsefeathers, and he'd stumbled on it when he'd endured the Academy's ritual Spirit Quest following his third year. At 14, he had been just tall enough to pass for a very short adult, and conjuring a uniform and working a spell on the security guards had been ridiculously easy. He'd spent the day exploring the place, including the heavily fortified and guarded Gate Room. Unfortunately, he couldn't discern a clue as to what the Gate was or how it worked. It appeared that it rotated in a frame somehow, but magic wouldn't budge it. He'd tried.

He now found himself in the Gate Room once again, as it was part of their indoctrination tour of the facility. Due to the nature of the mission on which they were about to embark, there were no 'off-limit' areas. They were shown everything, the Gate itself having been saved for last.

"As you may have noticed," Colonel Carter was explaining, "our gate has no DHD - 'dial home device'. It was not found with the Gate when it was discovered in Egypt. It took decades of research and trial and error to simply get it to move. And it wasn't until an archaeologist, Dr. Daniel Jackson, deciphered the glyphs that we really understood what it was."

Several of the OPTIC team were examining the Gate with keen interest. Vin leaned in close and pressed his head and palms against the outer ring to see if it would 'speak' to him, but it did not. There was not even the 'alien' voice he'd detected from the puddle jumper. The Gate had never been intended for use as a weapon, apparently.

Dean Winchester smacked the closed iris soundly. "What's this do?" he asked.

"The Gate can be activated from both directions," Carter explained. "The iris effectively stops anyone from coming through an incoming wormhole."

Dean looked shocked. "Stops them? You mean like a bug on a windshield?"

Carter looked a bit guilty. The possibility of the iris obliterating innocent Gate travelers had been the subject of much controversy. But her answer was simple and direct. "Basically, yes."

"That's . . . disturbing," Stephen Strange observed. A few of the others agreed with him.

Carter continued, "You will all be given an iris deactivation code - IDC for short - so that the iris will open should you dial Earth from another Stargate."

Peter jumped up to the top of the Gate. It was 22 feet - 6.7 meters - but for him, that distance was insignificant. He used a web strand to pull JD up with him.

"What does this do?" JD pushed on the topmost chevron, which looked like it should move, but didn't.

"It locks onto the appropriate Gate symbol when the Gate is activated. The dialing mechanism works similar to a rotary phone."

"A what?" JD asked. He and Peter exchanged glances and shrugged.

Jake Stone stood staring at the Gate with its carved symbols and beautifully smooth surfaces. It was a masterpiece of art as well as science. But also, he recognized the material. There was a mushroom-shaped artifact in The Library made of the same substance and bearing the same symbols. "The DHD is in the Library," he told Carter.

"It is?" She looked genuinely surprised.

"Yes. It's one of the few artifacts we have never been able to connect to a myth or legend. It was at the Library of Alexandria until it burned in 48 BC - but not even they knew what it was."

There was faint clinking sound coming from behind the Gate where Draco, Deadpool and Sherlock were. Somehow - probably thanks to someone's misguided magic - Sherlock had obtained a small hammer and was tapping the Gate with it. Harry and Ron were the first to notice when Draco pulled out his wand. Ron nudged Sam Winchester to get his attention. Unlike the wizards, who were uncertain of calling attention to their abilities, Sam had no such misgivings.

"What the hell are you doing?" he said loudly enough for Carter to hear.

_"Diffindo!"_ Malfoy incanted, flicking his wand. There was an unexpected >pop!< and a brief flash of blue, and in the next instant, the blond wizard and his bodyguards were sprawled on the floor. Sherlock immediately started feeling around for something.

JD called to him from atop the gate, "Next to your left foot, Sherlock, 3 centimeters to the outside."

"What did you do?" Carter demanded, concerned.

" _Diffindo_ is the cutting spell," Ezra explained.

" _Cutting!?_ Cutting wha . . . Oh my God, you _didn't_ . . . "

Sherlock picked up something tiny in a pincer grasp and dropped it into a specimen vial.

"Sherlock, mate, you can't sample the Stargate," Watson said patiently.

"Too late!" Deadpool clapped Sherlock on the back, almost causing him to drop the vial.

Carter was livid, so was Jake, who protested, "That artifact is a million years old! You can't just chop chunks off of it . . ."

"It's hardly a _chunk_ ," Sherlock said calmly. "It's approximately one centigram. Barely noticeable."

"That's not the point!" Stone exclaimed.

"Really, it's not, Sherlock," Watson admonished.

"That spark looked like blue hellfire," Castiel shuddered. So did Josiah.

Vin scratched his head. "Now we'll need to get a dosimeter in here."

"No need," Carter assured, even though she was still pissed off. "There are built in alarms. If any significant radiation had been given off, they would have alerted . . ."

She was interrupted by a blaring alarm.

"Oh shit," Nathan groaned.

Carter moved quickly to check the reading on the dosimeter to determine the level of radiation exposure.

"Nice job, Sherlock, you've nuked us all," Buck huffed.

"No, no . . . we're fine . . . " Carter assured. "That alarm . . ."

Before she finished, Rodney McKay charged into the room with a laptop and a panicked look on his face. John Sheppard followed an instant later, but judging from his expression, he had no idea what had McKay worked up.

The physicist set the laptop on the nearest surface, which happened to be the thick guard rail of the gate ramp.

The sensor tracking screen was lit up and flashing, although it was not as yet displaying any contacts.

Sherlock had his ears covered and his eyes closed. He didn't like the blaring repetitive noise and the blinking lights. He still clutched the sample vial of naquadah, though. He had his priorities.

 "Can we kill that alarm?" Watson asked. 

Deadpool produced a handgun - a fairly large one, so how he had managed to hide it was a mystery - and fired one shot at the noisy apparatus, which effectively silenced it.

Sheppard scowled at him, even though he secretly admired the accuracy of the shot, and shut off the blinking lights.

Everyone's attention focused on the laptop screen, even though most of them were not sure what they were looking at.

There was just a blip at first . . . a small green dot that pulsated in a way that was rather alarming. Then suddenly, there was another, then five, then 20 then . . . "Oh no," McKay gasped.

"Holy crap," Sheppard added.

"They'rrrrrre herrrrrrre," Deadpool said, giggling with undisguised glee.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" Sherlock asked him, but got no reply.

"They're at the outer rim of the galaxy," Rodney explained, in a way that was not at all reassuring. "It's still going to take them . . . Oh no . . . " he stared at the screen, his eyes wide. Purple dots had joined the green ones. "No-no-no-no-no . . . "

"Rodney . . . " Sheppard prodded.

"I'm detecting the presence of keron particles . . . "

"Meaning what?" Larabee demanded.

McKay pointed a shaking finger at the purple blips.

"That can't be . . ." Sheppard frowned.

"Can't be, but it is. They've got company. They aren't alone. They've lead _them_ here . . . "

"Who?" Watson asked.

"Replicators," Chris said softly.

"We're _so_ screwed," Rodney cried, then looked at Chris. "Wait a minute . . . How do you know that?"

Sheppard and Carter both turned their gazes towards the OPTIC team leader.

Chris tapped his own head. "D.A.R.Y.L. project survivor," he explained, uselessly, since no one there except Nathan actually knew of the D.A.R.Y.L. project. 

"Nathan will explain it to you later. Let's just say, we may not be as screwed as you think," Larabee said calmly. He motioned towards the exit. "Gentlemen, let's ride."

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I had fun writing it, and I hope it was at least a little bit fun to read. ♥


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